The Songbird of 221B
by EccentricSoundsFun
Summary: Sherlock and John get a bit more than they bargained for when they meet a spritely little songbird named Mary Fisher. Of course, so does Mary when she finds herself in an explosive vest less than a week after meeting them. Author's Note: I realize there are a few inconsistencies between chapters one and two. Chapter 2 is more right so please forgive the inability to use this site!
1. Chapter 1

The stage lay before me, lights dimmed so the spotlight shone all the brighter. It was a small stage, situated at the far end of a cozy restaurant, but it was still a stage, and that was what mattered. I'd spent years of my life fighting for the limelight, and, as small as it may have seemed, this was it. Here's hoping I didn't embarrass myself.

I stepped to center stage, pausing briefly before removing my coat. Only two tables were occupied; an older woman sat alone in a corner booth, and two men were far more preoccupied with each other at a window seat than they were with me. That was alright. I'd get their attention somehow. Taking a few deep breaths, I tossed my coat over the wooden chair behind me. Beneath it, I'd worn a simple emerald green, knee-length dress and black leggings with white stars dotting them. Black, leather boots rose almost to my knees, and the slight heel boosted me to just above five feet. A burgundy scarf was wrapped around my neck, and I draped it over my coat before removing a matching cloche hat from my head. I tucked one of my chin-length curls behind my ear and clasped my hands in front of me, signaling to the restaurant owner that I was ready.

"Ladies and gentleman," he said, briefly grabbing the attention of the restaurant's three patrons, "I have a special treat for those of you here tonight. This dear girl," he gave a rather ridiculous sweeping gesture in my direction, "has agreed to lend her voice to make your dining experience all the more pleasant." I watched the two men as he spoke, for the woman seemed to be far too engrossed in her coffee to pay attention. As the owner, Mr. Greeves, said this last bit, the taller of the two men, who almost had his back to me, made a face and rolled his eyes, turning to face the other man. Slightly offended by this point, I heard the tall man mutter something, and the shorter man scolded him, making small gestures in my direction. _They make a cute couple, _I thought to myself. The shorter one wore a thick sweater that almost matched the fair beige of his hair. All I could see of the taller one was a mop of dark curls atop the turned up collar of a black duster. Every once in awhile, he'd turn ever so slightly so I'd catch a glimpse of cheekbone. _Hot damn, that is one hell of a cheekbone._

"I present Mary Fisher, singing...erm. What are you singing?" Mr. Greeves asked. Suddenly all eyes in the room were on me, including both pairs from the window seat. _My God, I don't think I've ever seen someone so disinterested, _I thought, meeting the gaze of mop-top. Beneath thick eyebrows, the mere look in his eyes made me want to slap him. _And possibly kiss him. _Beside him, the shorter man smiled at me encouragingly. The pair of them were quite a sight. I wondered how things went along at home. I looked away, back to Mr. Greeves. I could feel the burning blush creeping up my face. Mr. Greeves gazed at me expectantly, still waiting for an answer.

I gripped the microphone stand with one shaking hand and cleared my throat, ignoring the sensation of bored and overtly interested eyes watching me. "I...I, um. I'm going to sing Teenage Dream. By Katy Perry."

A badly muffled groan sounded from the window booth. My mouth opened reflexively to say something, but Mr. Greeves interrupted my thought. "Do you have a CD to play or something?"

I shook my head. "I'm going to sing it a capella, if that's alright." Mop-top made quite possibly the most sarcastic "ooh!" sound that I had ever heard in my life. Briefly, I let myself imagine storming over to the window booth and dumping that entire glass of ice water over his, presumably, smug face. However, the figurative sight of the shorter man's shocked and appalled expression was enough to keep me onstage, and with a wave of Mr. Greeves' hand, I began to sing.

John

The girl onstage began to sing, and while she made her way through the first verse, I glared at the self-satisfied face across from me.

"My God, could you be any more abrasive?"

Sherlock glanced up from his mobile, seeming genuinely surprised for a moment. "What could you possibly mean, abrasive?"

"Abrasive as in I could see the transformation from curiosity to the urge to strangle you happen in less than five minutes. Which is somewhat of a record. What are you doing?"

Eyes fixated on the screen in his hands, Sherlock replied, "Missing persons case."

"Interesting, is it?" I laced my fingers on the table in front of me.

"Interesting, yes. Difficult to solve, no. I'm just checking the tube schedules for the last two weeks and-yes. Yes! Brilliant!" His voice rose to a shout, and I quickly kicked him under the table.

"Would you shut up? That poor girl is trying to sing," I scolded him, looking around him at the singer. As much as she tried to ignore us, her eyes kept darting in our direction before facing off into space again. She really was talented. Her voice rose and fell almost effortlessly with each line. As she cycled through the chorus a second time, I wondered how such a voice could fit into such a tiny creature.

"Trying, to be sure. She could have chosen a decent piece of music, though," he muttered, thumbs jabbing away at his phone.

"Have you even been _listening_ to a word she's sung? Do you even know this song?"

"Top of the charts for three weeks running, played on every station at _least_ four times a day in every cab we've been in," he said as his thumbs slowed down and he raised his eyes to look at me briefly, "How could I not?"

"Okay, but I know you haven't been listening, and after those silly little remarks, you really should-"

"She's a soprano. She's never been classically trained and her s's whistle ever so slightly. She's American, probably from the southeast and she just got over a cold, which is probably why she didn't try something with a larger range."

I resisted the urge to kick him again. _So bloody clever,_I thought, irritated. The girl's song came to its end, and she fell silent, standing stiffly with the general expression of a deer in headlights. Absolutely terrified, and awful at hiding it. As the silence grew long, I waited for even a single clap. She was visibly holding her breath. Clearing my throat, I clapped for her. _Why shouldn't I? She's good,_ I thought. I shot Sherlock an angry look, which he was too distracted by his phone to see, so I kicked him under the table hard enough to make him grunt. He glared at me, and I nodded towards the girl on stage, clapping a little louder so he'd get the hint. Rolling his eyes, he began to do a ridiculous looking golf clap.

Mary

That's it then. I was going to throw up. Right here, right now. I could feel the bile at the back of my throat. I don't know what I'd been thinking when I took this gig. As I'd fallen silent, so had the room. Even Smartypants McCurlyHair in the back seemed otherwise occupied. I briefly considered faking a heart attack when a single clap broke the silence and made me jump. This clap was followed by a steady stream of others, and I noticed that the clapping was coming from Smartypants's friend. After a moment punctuated by a pained grunt, Smartypants joined in the clapping. I couldn't help but smile. The shorter man in the booth was smiling at me in sort of a forced fashion. I noticed that every few seconds he'd redirect his gaze to his friend, glare at him, and return to smiling at me. I stifled a giggle and curtseyed, looking for Mr. Greeves. I found him behind the counter, and he waved me on, gesturing for me to sing another song. The second one came easier, and I was able to lose myself in the melody.

A little under an hour later, I found myself leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant, watching taxi after taxi pass me by. The air had gained a crisp chill, and as it picked up the edge of my scarf, making it flutter against my cheek, I had to repress a shiver.

"Cold out, isn't it?"

I yelped and jumped almost a foot to the side in surprise.

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." The voice was soft and kind. I turned to see the shorter man from the window booth. "I'm John. John Watson."

I smiled, sinking into my oversized scarf as best I could. "I'm Mary Fisher. Nice to meet you." I reached out one nearly numb hand to shake his.

"Your voice is incredible, by the way. Absolutely amazing."

I replaced my hand in my pocket, looking at the ground for a moment. "Thank you. That really means a lot." Remembering the other half of the duo, I asked, "Didn't you come here with someone?"

I saw his eyes almost roll for a moment. He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be Sherlock. He's, uh. He's in the loo. Listen, I'm sorry about him."

"No, it's okay. People are entitled to their own opinions, you know. Oh look, speak of the devil," I said, watching Mop Top make his way to the front door. "Listen, I really need to go."

"Oh, no, wait. He-"

I cut John off as I began to walk away, desperately wanting to avoid a conversation with both of them. "No, look, it's fine. Really! He's cute though."

John looked confused. "What?"

As Sherlock came through the door, I said over my shoulder, "You make a wonderful couple!"

John

"You make a wonderful couple!"

I stared after Mary, speechless for a moment. Then I looked at Sherlock, who had the most infuriating look of amusement I'd ever seen. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"I am not gay!" I yelled after her. She simply kept walking. I could feel Sherlock wanting to say something. "What?"

"Did I get in the way of something?"

"Shut up."

Mary

Sometimes, I would have liked my interactions with those two to stop there. However, with my luck, just one meeting was enough. Meeting them often fluctuated between good and bad luck. Looking back at myself, vest full of explosives strapped to my chest and nothing more on me than a cellphone full of instructions, I'd say that at the start, it definitely wavered over bad luck.

A text arrived, giving me a phone number to call. I called it.

"Sherlock Holmes speaking."

Fear tightened my throat, almost making it impossible to speak. As I put the phone on speaker, another text arrived with my script.

"H...Hello Mr. Holmes. For this case, I will give you eight hours. If you fail," I fought against my lungs as they tried to hyperventilate, "This songbird will die. What a shame that would be."


	2. Chapter 2

John

The news that day had not been the best wake up call. I took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, the headlines flashing in my mind like neon-lit signs. The street outside was littered with debris, and from the street, I could see that the windows had been blown in. It figured that the one night I had a row with Sherlock would be the night he got himself blown up.

The staccato plucking of a violin drifted down the stairs to meet me, and I could hear two male voices mumbling. One was definitely Sherlock's.

"Sorry, far too busy. Couldn't possibly," I heard Sherlock say as I made it to the doorway. His brother, Mycroft, sat across from him with a generally displeased expression.

"Yes, I've seen that your...business has been booming thanks to your blogger," Mycroft said, sparing me a glance. _Great. Let's bring up the bloody blog again. _

"Sherlock, are you alright?" I asked, looking towards the windows covered in plywood.

He continued plucking the violin and barely looked at me. "Fine. Just a gas leak, apparently. Mycroft, if this case is so important, why don't _you_ look into it?" The mental image of Mycroft off on a case in Sherlock's duster and scarf was partially amusing, but mostly just wrong.

"I couldn't possibly leave the office, not with elections and..." he trailed off, and he and Sherlock shared an uncomfortable silence. "Well, you don't need to know about all of that. Look, I'll just leave this file with you." He stood, holding out a manilla folder towards Sherlock. Sherlock simply stared at him, motionless. Almost huffing at him, Mycroft approached me, handing me the folder and shooting me a look that said, _you are the reasonable one and I am sorry you must look after this child._ I gave a brief smile and placed it on the desk. As Mycroft left, Sherlock played the most ghastly thing on his violin. It sounded like a small child throwing a fit, and as Mycroft walked out of sight, Sherlock pushed the bow along the strings in the direction of the door. With his facial expression, I believed that he'd quite possibly used a musical instrument to tell Mycroft to bugger off. Sighing, I took a seat on the sofa.

"Why'd you lie? You don't have one thing on."

"Why shouldn't I?"

The pouty way he said this and his facial expression made it clear. "Ah. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock's phone began to ring, and he quickly picked up. The conversation was extremely brief, and he hung up, practically hopping out of his seat. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Come on."

"Me?"

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

A few minutes later, we found ourselves in Lestrade's office. I watched Sherlock open an envelope that, strangely enough, had been addressed to him. In female handwriting, even. Inside was a phone that greatly resembled... "That...That's the phone."

"That's the phone from A Study in Pink," Lestrade said.

Sherlock mumbled something in response, launching into a list of deductions and suddenly veered off. "Someone went through a lot of trouble to make it look like- A Study in Pink?! You read his blog?!" _Oh no._

"Well yeah- hey, do you really not know that the earth goes 'round the sun?" _Oh god,_ I thought, screaming internally. Sherlock glared at me shortly, then opened a message that had been left on the phone for him. Five pips, and a photo of some place that _apparently_ Sherlock knew. Of course he bloody did.

"It's a warning," he said suddenly.

"A warning?" Lestrade asked.

"It's gonna happen again," Sherlock said, pocketing the phone and turning to leave. I hurried after him.

"Hang on, what's gonna happen again?" I asked, becoming slightly worried. Without turning to look at me, Sherlock simply said, "Boom!"

Mary

I'd been sitting in this car for at least two hours. Everything below my waist had gone spectacularly numb, and the weight of the explosive vest hadn't helped. I had no idea what time it was. I sat in the driver's seat of a car I'd never seen before with no keys in sight and a pager in my hand. Not a single person had bothered to even look in this car as they passed by. I was practically invisible.

A shrill ring made me jump. I looked around the car as best I could, but didn't see a phone anywhere. A small beam of light came from the glove compartment, and upon opening it, I found a phone. The moment I had it in hand, the ringing stopped. It had been from a blocked number, so I couldn't call it back for answers. My finger hovered over the nine when the pager went off. I picked it up.

_I wouldn't do that if I were you..._

I noticed a glimmer of light out of the corner of my eye and looked down to find a laser sight on one of the explosives strapped to me. I yelped, dropping the phone. The pager went off again.

_No no no. Pick that back up. I've got a job for you._

I let out a frightened sob. Tears began to flow freely down my face. Obediently, I dialed the number given to me by the pager.

"..."

"..."

"Sherlock Holmes speaking."

I watched the words travel across the screen in slow succession. "Hello sexy."

"...Who's this?"

"I..I sent you a little puzzle just to say hi." I struggled not to vomit, scream, or burst into hysterical sobbing.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying, I'm typing. And this..." I hesitated, anger making me bite my cheek before continuing, "stupid bitch is reading it out."

I could hear him mumbling something and talking away from the speaker. The pager didn't stop.

"12 hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or this songbird..." I felt my breath leave me, and suddenly couldn't find the air to speak. I took a few deep breaths, and continued. "Dies. And what a shame that would be."

_Hang up now,_ the pager instructed, _and sit quietly like a good girl._ I did as instructed, tossing the phone aside and gripping the steering wheel in a desperate attempt not to vomit. My breathing sped up to where I felt like I was close to hyperventilating. Nausea made my stomach lurch. I remembered that name, Sherlock Holmes. I prayed silently, tears dripping onto the steering wheel. _Please, God. Please don't let my life be in the hands of that man. Please._


	3. Chapter 3

John

"That voice..." I muttered to myself, pacing the floor as Sherlock studied a pair of trainers we'd found. "I know that voice. Songbird? Why can't I place it?" I glanced at Sherlock, addressing him, "Who do you think she was? The crying woman, I mean."

Without removing his focus from the microscope, Sherlock replied, "No one, she's just a hostage. No lead there."

My eyes widened momentarily. "For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads. Look, I know that voice. He called her a songbird, and I don't know why, but I think we know her."

"More like you know her. I didn't speak to her."

"Wait." I hesitated for a moment. "What d'you mean? You know who it is, don't you?"

"It won't make a difference. Like I said, there are no leads with her."

"Who is it? Who is she?" My voice started to raise in volume with each sentence. Sherlock took his hands off the microscope, placing them on the table beside it.

"You're not gonna be much use to her. Especially with all of these emotional outbursts." He returned his gaze to the microscope. He wasn't going to tell me. Fine.

"Are they trying to trace the call?"

"The bomber's too smart for that." I heard a small sound. "Pass me my phone."

_Rude._ I narrowed my eyes at him, but he didn't bother to look up. "...Where is it?"

"Jacket."

I didn't comprehend for a moment, and then I noticed that he meant the jacket he was wearing. _Oh my God. I can't even..._ Before I found myself beating him to a pulp, I went around the table and reached into his pocket.

"Careful!"

I inhaled a deep breath through my nose, clenching my jaw. _This cocky bastard! _I yelled inside my head as I rummaged around in his front pocket, a bit gentler this time. On the phone was a text from Mycroft.

"Ignore it."

"Ignore it?" I protested, seeing as Mycroft had texted eight times already. Sherlock then proceeded to deduce something about a bloody dental appointment and how the case was already wrapped up. I can't remember much of it. I sort of tuned it out.

I came back in when he said something that struck sort of a nerve. "...why he's trying to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting." I recoiled a bit.

"Please...try to remember there's a woman that might die."

"What for? There's hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside, see what good it does them?"

Shocked and a bit repulsed by his response, I turned away for a moment, mouth hanging slightly open as I tried to string together a complete thought. A lightbulb suddenly went off in my head.

"The girl. I knew I knew her. She's the singer from the restaurant, isn't she? Mary. Mary Fisher."

"Oh, was that her name? I didn't catch it."

My temper nearly snapped like a twig. "No, but you knew who she was. You've seen her, you know what she looks like. You know that she's a human being, that she exists. How can you not care one bit?!"

"Will caring about her save her?"

I resisted the urge to yell, to shout. I realized that it would do no good. I pursed my lips behind a clenched fist.

"No, not by itself. But what it does do is it makes me human. You, on the other hand. I...I dunno. You're like some murder-crazed android," I muttered, storming out of the room.

Mary

Judging by the clock on the cellphone beside me, I'd been sitting in this car for seven hours at least. Pins and needles skittered up and down my legs as I waited for a call, a text, a page. Something. I was exhausted, I was hungry, and I had to use the restroom. I also had a vest full of enough explosives to probably take at least fifty people down with me, but I was trying to keep that at the bottom of my list of problems at the moment. Despair wracked my brain.

_If the guy that answered the phone is who I think he is, I am doomed. Absolutely doomed. _Irritation gnawed at me as I remembered the Sherlock I'd met. He was almost inhuman, that was for sure. _Although..._ I suddenly remembered his companion, John Watson. He'd been the complete opposite- polite, sweet, and kind. Maybe if they worked together, I still had some sort of chance. I remembered him yelling something after me as I'd left, but the wind had picked up and drowned it out. What had it been?

_Try spam, not lays?_

_Fly cam airways?_

_Forget it,_ I told myself._ Probably not important, anyway._ I drummed my fingers on the console. The pager went off.

_Congratulations! _It read,_ You get to live. Call Sherlock back and tell him where to find you. Happy trails ;)_

I stared at the pager for a long while, watching the message on loop. _What weird region of the Twilight Zone have I landed in?_ I asked myself as I called Sherlock back.

"..."

_No hello? _I opened my mouth to speak, but noticed another message. I guess I had to do this the scripted way. "You solved it. Well done, you." As the pager went blank again, I spoke my own words again. "Help! Please. Come get me."

"Where are you? Tell us where you are and we'll come pick you up."

"Um...I, uh..." I looked around the outside of the car. I didn't know London nearly as well as I should have. "I-I don't know for sure...I'm looking for street signs."

"Describe it to me and we'll find you."

"I'm parked in a black Mitsubishi in front of a short building. There's a subway station to my left and a bus stop to my right. I can almost see a street sign in front of me...Damnit. I think it's something Abbey. I don't know for sure. Just please come find me," I could feel my voice starting to shake as my lip trembled. "Please."

I heard the phone exchange hands, and a new voice greeted me. "Mary? It's John. John Watson. Look, what's the name of the building in front of you?"

I was terribly nearsighted, so the letters on the building were ridiculously blurry. "Um...damnit, I can barely read it. Uh...I think it's something stock exchange?"

I heard him talk away from the speaker, and then back to me. "Alright, hang on. We're coming to get you. You'll be alright."

I sobbed in relief. "Thank you, John."

A few days later, I watched a number of cases come to a close on the news, as well as a terrible explosion that tore through a building like paper. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to tell me that all of the cases were linked, and that the explosion would have been me if they'd taken anymore time to solve it. John and Sherlock had visited me once before going to draw the entire thing to a close. They'd asked me how I'd come to end up in that car, and I'd told them what I remembered.

"Two men burst into my room, grabbed me, knocked me out, and I woke up in that car. I'd never even seen the car before, and both men were wearing masks. Sorry I can't be more help," I'd told them. After a brief discussion, John had left, saying he was happy I was alright. Sherlock had left with a bloody lip. Cradling my hand, I called John back into the room.

"I'm sorry I punched your boyfriend."

John made a face. "He's, uh. He's not my boyfriend. I tried to tell you the other day, but I guess you didn't hear me. I'm not gay."

Understanding dawned on me like the light of day.

_Try spam, not lays?_

_Fly cam airways?_

_I am not gay!_

_"_Oh! Ha. Ha...Sorry. I didn't mean to assume."

He waved it away. "No, you're alright. And it's okay that you punched him. Thank you, actually. I've been meaning to do it for a few days now."

I couldn't help but smile, straightening up a bit. "Well you are quite welcome, Mr. Watson. I just couldn't believe how..."

He put a hand on my arm. "I know, trust me. But, you must understand. He's not like other people. He means well...I think. You want to punch him a lot, but at the end of the day..."

I nodded. "At the end of the day, he saved my life. I'll thank him if I ever see him again. Which I'm debating on if it would be a good thing or not."

"What about if you saw me again?"

I blinked, taken off guard by the question. But, looking at him, I knew he was absolutely nothing like his...colleague? He seemed very...not sad, but kind of tired, when Sherlock wasn't around. I could tell he'd seen things, just by looking at him. But something about that crazy person he kept company with sort of brought him to life again. So, I rethought my whole response. "You know what? I think I'd like that. Seeing both of you again, even. Watching you two interact is just adorable."

He made a sound as if to protest, but I held up a finger so he'd let me finish. "And, you know. I kind of owe the pair of you my life."

There was a soft knock on the door. A nurse peeked around the corner. "Miss Fisher? You're free to go."

"Ooh! Really? _Finally!" _I exclaimed, hopping out of the hospital bed.

"Erm, d'you live far?" John asked.

I froze for a split-second, trying to think on my feet. "Not very..."

"I could walk you home if you like," he offered.

My heart skipped a beat, and my stomach turned. "No!"

He flinched ever so slightly.

"No, I mean I'm fine. Sherlock's waiting for you. He's gonna need someone to fix up his lip. Besides, I still need to get my things together. Go ahead without me."

He seemed unsure, but adopted a very resigned tone. I immediately felt awful. "Alright. I'll be off then." He stopped in the doorframe. "Just be safe, okay?"

I rolled my eyes playfully. "I'll try to do my best."

John

"You deserved that, you know," I told Sherlock as we rode back to the flat. He held a paper towel to his lip, which was still bleeding. "She's got a hell of an arm." He turned towards me, then back away with an irritated look on his face.

"What, you're not chasing off after her?"

"No," I said softly, feeling my ears turn slightly pink. "She went home. Said she didn't need anyone to walk her."

He scoffed then. An alarming sound, in any scenario.

"What?"

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me, what is it? What's wrong?"

The side of his mouth that wasn't covered in a paper towel curled into that godawful clever smirk. "She didn't need anyone to walk her because there's no home to go to."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. She's homeless."

"How could she possibly be-How could you even know that? You saw how she dressed that night, and you saw that she had belongings. How could she possibly be homeless?"

"John, you've seen her a grand total of three times, twice of which were in a hospital. You've only seen one outfit. She has a small suitcase of belongings and that's it. She's a runaway, and she got in over her head."

"Okay, how do you figure runaway?"

"She hasn't been on the streets long. She doesn't know the city. If she'd been homeless longer, she'd be in my homeless network. She's too well kept to have made her way here from somewhere else hence she left home very abruptly. Runaway."

I squinted at him._ He enjoys this. He really does get off on it._ "So you didn't think to tell me, or to mention it at all? It's less than ten degrees out tonight, Sherlock! She could freeze to death!"

"So could every other person sleeping on the street, and I don't see you running to their rescue."

"Alright, that's it. Cabbie, pull over here please."

A look of utter indignation crossed Sherlock's face as I opened the door to the cab. "Where are you going?"

I stuck my head back in the cab for a moment. "I'm going to find her." I slammed the door shut behind me and ran off down the street as fast as I could.

Hours passed, and I saw no trace of her. The hospital had no idea where she'd gone, or even which direction she'd gone in. No one had seen her or knew her name. It was like she'd simply vanished off the face of the earth. At nearly ten that night, I returned to 221B, nose and ears completely numb and teeth chattering like a musical instrument. When I made it to the top of the stairs, I coughed and grunted in frustration.

"I," I sniffled quite loudly, "could not," I stomped over to the fire, focused solely on the heat, "find a single, solitary, trace of..." I trailed off. Sherlock sat in his chair, watching me with the tiniest amused grin, and across from him with a tray of tea inbetween, Mrs. Hudson and Mary shared the sofa, both staring at me with an equal expression of confusion.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary

"You?" John said, his voice shaking from the cold, "But how...?" I looked to Sherlock, who was practically bursting with self-satisfaction. John followed my gaze. "Sherlock?"

"Homeless. Network," Sherlock said simply. John's confused eyebrows dropped to where they shadowed his eyes.

"I'm going to bed," John muttered after an uncomfortably long pause. I could tell he was annoyed, so I rose to my feet and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Don't be mad at him, okay?" I pleaded, turning him back around so I could make eye contact. The frown that was nearly ever-present around Sherlock had returned to his face, so I gave him my best smile. "I'm glad you came looking for me." He blinked in confusion, so I figured I should clarify. "I'm not glad you nearly froze to death, of course. It just makes me kinda happy that you worried about me that much," I said with a toothy grin. My grin fell away as a grim thought floated to the front of my mind. "No one's ever really worried about me like that."

When those words left me, I noticed a change in John's expression. He suddenly went from the grouchy caretaker of the man-child that occupied the chair behind me to a person that wasn't tired of anything and everything around him. His face instantly softened, and I noticed him look over my shoulder, probably at Sherlock.

"Speaking of which," he began uncertainly, "if you don't mind me asking, how did you end up..." he struggled to find the right words and finally settled on, "here?" I became silent, debating on whether or not to answer. While I decided, I returned to the couch beside Mrs. Hudson. I met her kind eyes, and she told me quietly, "Don't be afraid, dear. You can trust my boys. I promise." She patted my knee and turned her attention to John and Sherlock. "I think I'll be off to bed," she told them with a smile. Sherlock, who had begun plucking at a violin, neglected to acknowledge her leaving, while John gave her a small nod. Once she'd descended the stairs, I gripped the hem of my dress tightly.

"I ran away from home a few months ago. I won't bore you with my sob story," I laughed nervously, falling quiet when Sherlock raised his gaze and an eyebrow, "but I got a few hundred bucks together, threw a few darts at a map, and caught a plane here. As you could...probably tell, I want to be a singer. But, these days, gigs don't amount to much more than a tiny stage in an empty restaurant. In barely two months, my money had run out and so had my luck."

"Until you wound up with explosives strapped to you," Sherlock added. John shot him an angry look.

"Well, I guess you could put it that way. But I mean...I didn't want to intrude. I mean, that's why I didn't tell you."

"You didn't hide it too well, either," mumbled Sherlock. I opened my mouth to protest, but I felt the beginnings of doubt and closed my mouth. I lowered my eyes to my lap, unsure whether to cry or leave.

I settled for an apology. "I'm sorry," I uttered, wringing the fabric of my dress.

"Sherlock-" John said, sounding unable to find a sentence suitable for the situation. "Mary, don't apologize. What are you apologizing for?" he asked, joining me on the couch. After a moment of thought, he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you stay here?"

"What?" Sherlock and I said in unison, raising our heads to look at John.

He looked from Sherlock to me and back again, a confused half-smile on his face. "What? I don't mind. Besides," he added, narrowing his eyes slightly at Sherlock, "Where else has she got to go?"

"There are plenty of shelters, I'm sure," Sherlock replied, returning his attention to his violin.

"Shelters? Sherlock, you're not serious," John protested. Personally, I halfway liked the idea of living with these two, so I knew who I had to appeal to.

I crossed the room to where Sherlock sat in a very square, leather chair, focusing every bit of his attention on his instrument and trying with all of his might to ignore me. "Sherlock?" I addressed him, hands crossed behind my back and head tilted to one side. Feigning annoyance, or so I hoped, Sherlock set his violin down and looked up at me. I noticed from this distance that his eyes were an odd sort of olive green and smiled.

"What?" he asked suspiciously, leaning away from me slightly.

"I know you probably don't like me all that much. And you will probably make fun of me every chance you get, because you like to reassure yourself that you are just plain better than everyone else. Personally, I have already come to terms with my own flaws and the fact that they are crass and incurable."

"Because of your irritating stubbornness?" he muttered, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.

"No. Because I'm American." I heard John snort behind me. The corners of Sherlock's eyes creased ever so slightly, and I caught the smallest hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. "Anyway, I promise to tolerate your jabs at my self esteem- trust me, I can take it- if you let me stay. I'll sleep on the couch, and, get this, I'll even pay rent."

"No, no, you don't-" I heard John protest from behind me. Sherlock raised a hand to silence him.

"How do you plan to do that with no job? I hardly think singing will pay for a third of the rent," he contested, a sly expression forming on his face.

"There's a temp agency down the street. I was going to apply when I, you know, got kidnapped or whatever."

After a moment of thought, Sherlock replied. "One third of the rent. Paid in full every month directly to Mrs. Hudson. If you can't pay-"

"Let me guess," I interjected, "I get kicked out."

"No," Sherlock said, rising to his feet, "You'll have to deal with an angry Mrs. Hudson. Welome to 221B, Baker Street."

As he took his violin to the window to play, I sat beside John on the couch. "You know," I said, "I feel like that was much more of a threat than you would expect." John simply smiled nervously.

A couple of hours later, John decided to call it a night. As he stood to retire to his room, he made a stop at a cupboard. He returned with his arms full of blankets.

"You'll have to sleep on the couch, I'm afraid. I hope that's alright," he said, spreading the blankets out over the couch.

I waved away his concerns. "Beats the underside of a bridge." My joke fell horrifically flat as John gave me a look filled with pity. I sighed uncomfortably. "Don't worry about me. Sleep well!"

"You...too," he said, sparing Sherlock a glance as he went to his room. I followed his gaze to where Sherlock had begun to pace the room._Somehow I get the feeling that this is going to be a very long night,_ I thought as I wrapped myself in the blankets.

Three hours passed before my eyes became far too heavy to keep open. Sherlock continued to pace, stopping every now and again to type something into his laptop or look at a random newspaper article. I'd watched his every move, but still couldn't figure out for the life of me what he was doing. In fact, I had a distinct feeling that he'd forgotten I was even there. He'd stopped glancing at me watching him at least an hour ago. Caught by a sudden cloud of dust, I sneezed. Sherlock jumped in surprise, whipping around to face me like he'd never seen me before.

"You're...still here," he noted.

"I am," I replied, unsure if I was supposed to reply any other way. He studied me silently for a moment.

"You're exhausted," he said, eyes darting to a million different places on me within seconds. "You can sleep in my room for the night. I won't be sleeping."

"But," I yawned, "It's almost four in the morning. You've got to sleep sometime."

"Not anytime soon," he responded, pulling the sleeve of his robe back to reveal his forearm. Three circular patches stood out against his pale skin. I leaned closer to confirm what I was seeing.

"Uh...got a nicotine problem?" I asked uneasily.

"It's very difficult to keep up a smoking or narcotic habit in London. The patches help me think."

"But three? At _once?_"

He raised his eyebrows and said matter-of-factly, "It's a three patch problem. Now go to bed before you pass out."

"A..." I sighed in defeat. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now go."

When I stood, I wobbled dangerously as the room blurred in and out of focus. Sleep deprivation had always been extremely difficult for me. The door straight ahead of me looked promising, but I didn't want to fall asleep in the bathtub or closet by accident.

"Your room?" I mumbled, pointing straight ahead. Sherlock nodded, and I stumbled into the room, closing the door behind me. I briefly battled with myself on whether or not to lock it. In the end, I left it unlocked, seeing as it wasn't my room anyway. Sherlock's bed was huge; the mattress nearly ate me alive when I threw myself into it. Sheets and pillows galore fell over me as I sunk into the mattress, and I wrapped myself up like a bug in a cocoon, instantly insulated in a burrito of warmth. As I snuggled deeper into the blankets, Sherlock's unmistakeable scent hit me hard enough to partially wake me up. It was definitely a masculine scent, but it was also very refined and, if I had no other way to describe it, serious, with just a hint of something else that smelled vaguely of...sweetness? I hugged a pillow close to myself, letting myself become engulfed in it. The scent was strangely comforting, and for the first time in months, as I drifted down into peaceful dreams, I felt perfectly safe.


	5. Chapter 5

Mary

Morning nudged me awake, streaming soft sunlight through the blinds on the window. It took everything I had to pull myself out of the deep sleep I'd fallen into. Brushing my curls away from my eyes, I looked at the clock on the bedside table. _Already eleven?_ I thought. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up, examining the room around me. It took a few minutes to remember where I was and how I got there. The previous day's events replayed in my mind, reminding me that Sherlock was probably passed out on the floor in the living room. I hopped out of bed to see how hard he'd crashed from his nicotine high.

The living room of the flat was bright with morning light, and the air of the room was warm and cozy, having already baked in the sun for a few hours. Straight across from me, I could see Sherlock draped over the sofa, his silk robe open to reveal blue pajamas. He was practically dead to the world; his dark curls fell over one eye and the sunlight illuminated the sharpness of his features, as well as softened them. From where I stood, he looked peaceful, like a small child.

"Morning," a voice whispered from beside me. I jumped, startled, and saw John laughing quietly with a china cup of tea in hand. "Sorry," he whispered, smiling apologetically, "Didn't mean to frighten you. I see Sherlock was up all night?"

"Well I tried to say no, but he had like three nicotine patches on him and I was _really_ tired, and his bed was _really_ comfortable..." I trailed off and shrugged sheepishly.

"You're fine. Don't worry about it. He does that. Sleep well?"

"Ex_ceedingly_. You?"

"About as good as I ever sleep. Tea?"

I shrugged, saying "Sure," while John crossed the room to a red chair across from the leather chair that Sherlock had favored last night. On the coffee table between them sat a tray with a complete tea set on it.

"How do you like it?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

I shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. I've never had English tea. I guess just do it like you'd drink it." John proceeded to combine milk, tea, and a small amount of sugar before handing the cup and saucer to me. I took a cautious sip, proceeded to burn my tongue, and smiled. "Thanks. It's been awhile since I had something warm to drink," I mentioned, settling into Sherlock's chair. John gave me a small smile, made a gesture as if to ask a question, but seemed to change his mind at the last second.

"Would you like me to walk you to the temp agency later?" he asked finally.

"Yeah, actually. That'd really be great. Mainly because I have no idea how to get there from here. You don't have to get to work though?"

"I'm off today actually. Well, off from my normal job."

"Which is?"

"I'm a doctor."

"Just a doctor?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes...why?"

I shrugged. "You hold yourself like a soldier. Your eyes carry much more weight than those of an ordinary doctor."

He raised his eyebrows and then grinned, like I'd just told a great joke. "Have you and Sherlock been talking about me?"

"No, why?"

John set his tea down on the table and spared Sherlock a glance before continuing. "When Sherlock and I first met, he knew I was a soldier before I'd even said anything. He deduced literally everything about me when I first walked in the door. I'm beginning to wonder if you might share his powers of observation."

"Really? Well, for me, power of observation could always be the difference between life or death. It's a necessity for me. I have a feeling that he enjoys it." I muttered with a smile, glancing in Sherlock's direction. I nearly dropped my tea as I looked up and up until I made eye contact with Sherlock, who'd appeared beside me without a sound.

"Good lord! Were you a ninja in another life?" I asked, taking a sip of my tea.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. From where I sat, he was nothing less than intimidating. "You're in my chair," he announced, his eyes focused, unmoving, on me.

"Huh? Oh. Right. Sorry!" I said, bouncing up quickly enough to spill tea all over myself and the seat of the chair. "_Yeowch!_" I squealed, almost dropping the fragile cup and saucer onto the coffee table. John stood immediately, rushing to grab a few towels. He returned and began blotting me with them, asking me if I was alright as he did so. He blotted with great force, making me rock back and forth on my feet and almost making me stumble. The absurdity of it all made me giggle.

"I'm alright, I'm fine," I laughed, grabbing the towel to stop him. "I just need to go change." I looked at Sherlock, whose narrowed eyes were focused on the seat of his chair, now blotched with tea. I bit my lip, feeling like a complete idiot. "I'm sorry," I said, wincing. Sherlock raised his gaze to meet mine. I saw him look to John for less than a second before replying.

"It's alright," he sighed finally. "Don't worry about it." He held out a hand, and I tried to figure out what in the world he wanted until my eyes fell on the towel in my hand. I handed it to him without a word, and left for the bathroom to change.

When I returned, John was typing furiously on his laptop, and Sherlock was fully dressed in a sharp black button down and black trousers. _Downright spiffy, even in his own flat,_ I thought, letting an amused grin cross my face. Sherlock was preoccupied with his phone, and John was oblivious to everything but his laptop, so I took the opportunity to tiptoe around John until I was right next to his ear.

"What are you typing?" I asked, making him jump.

He noticed me, and gave a relieved laugh. "A blog."

"About?" Sherlock added, barely looking up from his phone.

"Us," John said simply. I creased my brow in confusion, waiting for some kind of elaboration. None came.

"Man, you guys are great at this whole communication thing," I joked, examining the blog more closely over John's shoulder. "The Blog of Doctor John H. Watson. H? What's the H for?" I saw Sherlock grin mischievously before John had a chance to stop him.

"Hamish."

"Sherlock!" John protested. He glowered at Sherlock before looking to me for a reaction.

I stared at him blankly. "What? Is that considered a weird middle name?"

"John doesn't like it. It took months for him to confide in me, you know."

John scoffed. "He filched my birth certificate."

"Ah," I commented, reading over his shoulder. "So 'us' huh? I thought there was no 'us'," I joked with a grin.

John rolled his eyes. "Not like that there isn't. Sherlock is a-"

"Consulting detective. Only one in the world." Sherlock interjected.

"Yes, thank you. I'm his-"

The pair of them both went for a word at the same time, but obviously weren't on the same page.

"Assistant" said Sherlock.

"Partner- _assistant?!"_ said John.

"I meant partner. Blogger. Blogger! You're my blogger," Sherlock corrected, giving a sarcastic smile. John returned it. I had another question at the ready when the doorbell rang. Sherlock put away his phone and crossed the room to the fireplace, smoothing his shirt. John closed out of his blog and shut the laptop. I looked from one to the other, confused.

"Client," John explained, heading to the stairs to let the person in.

Over the next few hours, I watched as Sherlock rejected client after client while John watched quietly from his chair. Having no chair of my own as of yet, I simply perched on the computer chair, studying Sherlock and his strange way of interacting with people. He rarely looked at his clients. He simply paced back and forth, ears open but probably not listening.

"My husband's gone missing," said one client.

"Boring," replied Sherlock.

"I think my husband might be having an affair," said another client.

"He is," said Sherlock. I gaped at John, who shrugged helplessly.

"My grandmum's been replaced, I know it. I know human ash," said one particularly estranged client.

"So do I," said Sherlock, who looked up but not at the client. "Out."

Eyes wide with growing concern, I stood to usher the client out the door, as had become my "job" for the day. After he left, I stared at Sherlock. "You know human ash?" I asked.

"All 243 types. I wrote a blog about it," he responded with the slightest lift of his nose before turning to the window. I raised my eyebrows and turned to John, who sported a badly hidden grin.


	6. Chapter 6

John

A few hours later, I'd escorted Mary to the temp agency and was investigating a young, blonde woman's death with Sherlock. As we studied the cadaver, Sherlock kept prodding me about the blog.

"How many people actually _read_ your blog?" Sherlock asked without looking up from the body.

I shrugged noncommittally. "Lots."

"Why?"

I fought to hide a satisfied grin. "You mean why do they read my blog but not yours?"

"I've got an analysis of tobacco ash," he replied, as if that was reason enough to read it.

"...Right. Sherlock, people aren't interested in the types of tobacco ash. They're interested in our work. My blog is your income, you know that?" Sherlock remained silent, and looked as if he was pouting, so I changed the subject. "I think we've piqued Mary's interest."

"Why do you think that?" he asked, sounding clearly disinterested.

"The whole way to the agency, she asked question after question about you and," I gestured towards the body, "this."

Sherlock grunted. I assumed it was meant as a response.

"She could be quite good, you know."

"Good? At what? Breaking into a musical number over a dead body?"

"No-" I said before the absurd image hit me and I laughed, "No! She's bright. She knew I was a soldier without me telling her."

"A fantastic feat."

"Look, I'm just saying. She can read people, and she's smart. Maybe we can take her on a case sometime."

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet mine, snapping his tiny hand lens shut. "Cases are not dates. You realize that, don't you?"

"What? That's not even- it's not like that, Sherlock. Trust me."

He studied me closely for a minute, before rolling his eyes and replying, "Romantic date, platonic date, whatever. It doesn't matter. Case closed." He flipped the collar of his duster up and turned to leave the room.

"Wait what?" I asked, confused.

He turned briefly. "I know what killed her. Case closed."

Mary

After wasting an entire day at the temp agency, I was desperate for something to do the next day. John was back at his computer, typing up something about a speckled blonde. My phone was on loud mode, but it was almost noon and I hadn't gotten a single call. Boredom itched at my brain. Sherlock's phone went off, breaking the quiet.

"Lestrade. Yes?" Sherlock answered, and was silent for a few moments before saying, "On our way," and hanging up. "Come on, John," he said, putting his phone away. The thought of being left alone on a lazy day like this made me want to cry. John looked at me to say goodbye and I gave him the saddest puppy eyes I could muster. He stopped, tried to walk away, and sighed in defeat.

"Ah...Mary, why don't you come with us?" he asked, his eyes darting to the side, where Sherlock glared at him.

"No," Sherlock said simply without turning around.

"Come on Sherlock. We can always use an extra pair of eyes."

"Then get Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock," I pleaded, "I can help. Really! I can." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me, running through probably hundreds of responses in his mind.

After what looked like an internal battle, Sherlock glanced at John and sat in his chair, gesturing for me to sit across from him. "Alright. If you can impress me, you can accompany us. Be warned, I'm difficult to impress. John tells me you read people well. You're also twenty two years old, have two brothers, an alcoholic mother, and you're very accustomed to being underestimated. You allow people to underestimate you, which always gives you an advantage. Using this, you've become a rather successful kickboxer. At least I know you could handle yourself in a fight." I shrugged modestly, and he objected. "Don't be modest. Now's not the time. Your turn."

I studied him, taking in every detail from the slight frown lines between his eyebrows to the drumming of his fingers. I could see John watching from the couch, his fingers laced and his brows creased with interest. Taking a deep breath, I began my analysis. "You're in your late twenties. You've definitely got siblings. I think I've seen your brother, Mycroft, in the papers before. Judging by what John's told me of your tantrums, I'd say you're the baby of the family. You're a former addict and smoker-"

"Obviously," he interjected, raising his sleeve to reveal another patch.

"And you keep a stash of cigarettes in that shoe under the couch," I finished, pointing towards the couch for effect. Sherlock glared at me while John investigated. Sure enough, he pulled an entire carton's worth of cigarettes out of the shoe.

"A shoe?" John asked incredulously. "Why a bloody shoe?"

Sherlock crossed the room, snatching the shoe from John's hands and taking it into his bedroom. "My business, not yours," he said. Without looking at me, he sighed, grabbing a scarf from the coat rack. "You pass. Your skills are at least decent." I grinned. "Plus, we could always use a girl to coax information out of idiotic men," he added, shooting me a smirk. I crossed my arms and huffed, rolling my eyes.

"Don't be offended," John said, putting a hand on my back to lead me to the door. "I think there was a compliment in there somewhere."

Lestrade seemed like the kind of man that generally liked people, which was kind of a departure from what I was slowly becoming used to. After giving John a handshake and Sherlock a reluctant greeting, he smiled at me and shook me warmly by the hand.

"This is Mary Fisher," Sherlock said, "Mary, this is Gareth Lestrade." I heard John crack up behind me.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "It's Greg. Not Gareth," he said to me.

Behind me, John giggled. "Gareth," he laughed.

"Sorry. Greg. Now what exactly did we find?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject. Like a bee to a flower, I instantly began buzzing around the car, searching for anything out of the ordinary. I heard Lestrade make a noise.

"Uh...who exactly is she?" he asked John. I saw Sherlock open the trunk and zipped to his side, immediately recoiling at the stench of decay that rolled out of the trunk.

As I fanned the air in front of me, Sherlock grinned at my expense and replied, "She's in training. We're breaking her in, so to speak." I coughed on the smell of death. "Still interested in my line of work?" Sherlock asked, pulling out his tiny hand lens.

Determined not to gag, I puffed out my chest. "Of course! Just because I've never seen a dead body doesn't mean I can't help solve a case. I'm tough, dangit!" For added effect, I took a deep breath, holding it in until Sherlock bent down to inspect the body. Once his attention was off of me, I blew out the rancid air silently, practically feeling my face turn green. I decided to ask Lestrade about the details, considering I hadn't been properly briefed anyway.

"So dead guy appears in the trunk of his car. Seems like a normal murder. Why is the consulting detective called in?" I asked. Lestrade glanced at John and then at me. He walked to meet another officer and returned holding a couple of bags. One held a passport and the other held a plane ticket.

"A plane crashed the other day, killing everyone on board. Terrible tragedy. What struck us as odd, however, was this bloke. He was one of the passengers, but he turns up in the trunk of a car? What kind of sense does that make?"

I blinked, suddenly feeling very out of my depth. "Absolutely none. So he was on the plane when it crashed?"

"Yep. Ticket stub in his pocket, checked in on board. The whole nine."

"Weird," I muttered, returning to the body in the trunk. Sherlock was far too engrossed in his work to talk to me, so I decided to check the rest of the car. Five minutes later, I felt on the verge of tears.

"Find anything?" John asked.

My lower lip jutted out as I frowned. "No."

John smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry. To be honest, this was a bad first case anyway. Look," he said, pointing to Sherlock, who was still checking the body, and had been for the entire time we'd been here. "He's stumped, I know it." The grin on his face confused me.

"And...why is that a good thing?" I asked.

"He's _never_ stumped. _Never._" John was practically giddy at the idea of Sherlock being baffled. Apparently, so was Lestrade. After a period of silence, Sherlock shut the trunk.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm down to two ideas. Neither of which seems very likely," Sherlock muttered, putting his hand lens away.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What d'you mean? You saying you've got nothing?"

"In a sense," Sherlock sighed, "Yes."

The expression on Lestrade's face was similar to that of a lottery winner. Sherlock, however, was sullen the whole taxi ride home.

That night, as John wrote up the latest case, Sherlock read over his shoulder.

"Don't put up the unsolved cases!" he said, annoyed. I closed the book I was reading and joined the pair of them behind the computer.

"People want to know you're human, Sherlock. That you can make mistakes," John replied. "This is where you're getting work from, so it's better for people to get a sense of knowing you by reading it."

"People don't need to know me. It's my job to know them, not the other way around," Sherlock mumbled, sulking over to his chair.

Watching Sherlock pout, I asked John, "Am I in there?" not expecting an affirmative response. John leaned back, allowing me a glimpse at the finished product. Underneath the explanation of the case, there was a little blurb introducing me.

_In slightly better news, we've added a third budding detective to our ranks. A spritely little thing named Mary Fisher came with us today, eager to prove her sharp wits. You might remember mention of her in The Great Game. I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that she recovered from the shock and instantly was sucked into the consulting detective "game". Now, before you all get overly excited, no, she didn't show Sherlock up. But she did find his secret stash of cigarettes, and Mrs. Hudson and I have been looking for months. Still no idea how she knew where they were. _

_Anyway, it was a disappointing first case, to be sure, but I see a lot of potential in her. She's definitely well matched against Sherlock, and she's a kickboxer! I see many more adventures in her future. _

The blog then went on to ask for ideas as to the solution to the case. Already, the comments section was filling with ideas. I grinned with excitement.

"The hits have gone through the roof since I mentioned you, you know. A lot of girls, including my sister, are quite excited that there's a, to quote my sister, 'fierce' little thing around to keep Sherlock in line. People like you," John said, crossing his arms.

From downstairs, I heard Mrs. Hudson cry out, "Boys! You've got another one!" John hurried downstairs and returned with a man that seemed to be coming out of a dead faint. Sherlock took his pacing position in front of what I now knew as the "client chair" and I took the computer chair, which I'd claimed as my own for the time being. Once John had settled into his chair, Sherlock instructed, "Start from the beginning."


	7. Chapter 7

Mary

Less than an hour after the client had begun his story, John and I had driven out to the scene of the accident. I was practically giddy with excitement-two cases in one day! John had his laptop with him, which would serve as our link to Sherlock, who apparently couldn't be bothered to leave the house for this case. When we arrived, John was quick to ask one of the officers how their wifi reception was.

It, apparently, was wonderful.

"Can you see? Oh, wait,"John fumbled the computer, nearly dropping it in the process.

"Do you need me to hold it?" I joked.

"No, no. This is bloody stupid. I wouldn't be having all of these issues if you'd just come with us," John complained. I ducked under his arms to where I walked between him and the laptop so I could actually see Sherlock. Realizing what I was trying to do, John lowered the computer a bit so I could see more clearly. Sherlock came into view, rolling his eyes and wearing what couldn't possibly be a shirt.

"Why couldn't you come with us?" I asked, peering more closely into the screen, "And are you wearing a sheet?"

"This case is barely a six and John and I agreed that I wouldn't leave for anything less than a seven," he explained.

"We did not agree." John argued. Sherlock scoffed, and the pair of them began bickering like children. I rolled my eyes, bounding off to investigate more of the crime scene alone.

"So client was over there," I mumbled to myself, pointing in the direction of the street, "when his car backfired and he noticed a body over..._gah!_ Here. Yeesh. Almost stepped on ya. Sorry, pal," I apologized to the body that still lay in the grass, presumably for clue related reasons. I crouched down, wobbling unsteadily for a moment and tucking my curls behind my ears. I noticed, with a small amount of disappointment, that I'd gotten a bit of blood on my flats._ Serves me right for wearing flats out on a case anyway, _I scolded myself. Thankfully, the billowy skirt I wore was knee length, but took up enough fabric that it fell straight down between my knees with no worries of flashing anyone. Of course, it was my luck that it happened to be a rather windy day.

Holding the hem of my skirt down with one hand, I inspected the victim's head wound. Definitely a blunt object and not a shot, which was honestly my first idea. I mentally crossed it off the list. I searched the grass around the body, hoping that maybe the detectives had missed something. I wanted so badly to prove myself that I was willing to believe that someone had overlooked the weapon. Finding nothing, I paced through the grass around the body, going over the client's story.

_Car backfired, then he saw the man from earlier on the ground, apparently dead. The man had his back to the client at the time, so the weapon would have come from the client's direction. What am I missing?_

I glanced over my shoulder to see if Sherlock and John were having any more luck. They seemed to still be fighting.

_Weapon came from the client's direction, so where could it have gone? It doesn't make sense!_

A sudden thought occurred to me. "What if..." I muttered, placing a finger to my lips. "What if it _didn't_ come from that direction? If the car backfired, it would have been loud, so maybe the guy here turned around and..." I hopped up and down with excitement. "I've got it!" I squealed. I quickly turned on my heel to run back to John, who'd apparently cut Sherlock off from the conversation.

"John! Guess what! You won't believe it!" I could see John turning towards me and shouting something, but the beating of a helicopter propeller drowned out both of our voices. I reached him just as the helicopter touched down, and we shared a look of confusion as two men in dark suits approached us.

"Are...are we in trouble?" I asked nervously.

"God, I hope not," John answered.

One of the men studied both of us in turn. "John Watson?"

"Y...yes?" John answered uneasily.

"You are to come with us," the other man instructed, taking him by the arm.

"Hey! Wait a second, what about me?" I demanded, placing myself between the men and the helicopter.

"Who's this?" one of the men asked John.

"Um...No one! She's no one!" John answered, mouthing at me, _get out of here, now! _The men shrugged, one pushing me out of the way as they headed for the helicopter.

"Now wait just a minute!" I insisted, running in front of them again. John looked at me like I was nuts. "I am not _no one,_ I am Mr. Watson's, uh, colleague! He goes nowhere without me!"

The men shared a laugh at my expense before pushing me out of the way again. "Go home, Shirley Temple," one said without even looking at me. I saw John cringe.

Annoyance bubbled in my brain. _Shirley Temple? Seriously?_ I knew John was going somewhere exciting, and the only reason they weren't including me was because I was small and, oh yeah, a girl. One final time, I approached the men as they loaded John into the helicopter. I tapped the taller one on the shoulder, and as soon as he turned around, I socked him in the stomach.

Ten minutes later, the helicopter circled what I'd only ever seen on postcards. I bounced in excitement, clanking my handcuffs together. John, who sat beside me uncuffed, smirked at me.

"Was this adventure really worth getting yourself handcuffed?"

"Uh, duh. Do you not see Buckingham Palace down there? Because I totally do," I replied animatedly.

John gave a small laugh. "You're really enjoying all this, aren't you?" he asked as the helicopter began its descent. "You're like a kid at Christmas."

"Are you kidding? This is the best adventure I've ever been on! And we're going to meet the queen! The friggin Queen of England! _I'm so excited!"_I squealed. When the helicopter was turned off, the guy I'd punched slid open the side door, glaring at me with one hand on his stomach.

"Don't try anything stupid," he muttered, yanking me out the door.

I rolled my eyes and stumbled along behind him as he strode far too quickly for my short legs to keep up. When his attention was on the door, I glanced at John behind me, mouthing, _what a pansy,_ with a mischievous grin. John rolled his lips under to keep from laughing.

We were led through a maze of halls to a large sitting room. To be honest, by the time we got there, I had no idea how to get out again. The décor was beautifully crafted and painted mostly white trimmed with gold. I memorized each room we passed to the best of my ability, wishing just once for a photographic memory. The sitting room we ended up in was silent and empty, save for a familiar figure seated on a gold sofa and wrapped in a white sheet.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, hurrying over to sit beside him as best I could with the handcuffs slapping against my thighs. I collapsed into the sofa, having little to no balance with both of my hands occupied, and gestured with both hands for John to sit on the other side of me. Sherlock greeted me quietly, and then noticed the handcuffs.

He stared at John for an explanation, and, receiving none, proceeded to ask me, "What did you do?"

I shrugged as innocently as I could and gave him big, brown doe eyes. "Nothing! I don't know what you're talking about. These? They're a fashion statement."

"John?"

"Security insulted her and tried to leave her behind, so she punched one of the guards in the stomach," John explained. After a moment's pause, he followed my gaze to the clothes on the table. I looked Sherlock up and down, slowly enough to make all three of us uncomfortable.

"Yes? Are you deducing?" he asked sarcastically, wrapping his sheet tighter around him. A bare expanse of chest still peeked through, and I couldn't help but peer curiously at it.

"You, sir," I said, raising my gaze from his chest with effort, "Are naked. That...is my deduction."

Sherlock fought not to grin. "You talk like you're drunk sometimes, you know that? Why all the pauses?"

"I grew up in the land of freedom of speech and William Shatner. Figure it out," I responded completely dead-panned. There was a moment of silence before all three of us burst into fits of giggles.

"Can I get you two at a moment where you're not acting like complete children?" a voice asked from the doorway, silencing our laughter. I peered around Sherlock to see a rather haughty individual that reminded me of someone.

"Wait...Sherlock," I whispered, not taking my eyes off of the figure drumming his fingers against the head of his cane, "is that your brother?" The man seemed positively disgusted by the question and looked at me as if he hadn't seen me until I spoke.

"Oh, wonderful. You seem to have brought an actual child with you this time," he said snootily. _Oh yes,_ I thought, _definitely a Holmes. _"How did she get in and why is she in handcuffs?" he asked Sherlock, ignoring me again.

"She punched a guard in the stomach and demanded that they take her wherever I was going," John answered with an unmistakeable air of pride in his voice. I grinned like a star student, nodding to confirm it.

The other Holmes sighed and groaned something that vaguely sounded like, "Oh joy, another one," before holding a hand out to me. "Mycroft Holmes."

I shook his hand with both of mine. "Mary Fisher. Can I get these off? I don't think I have anyone left to punch," I joked.

"Yes you do," Sherlock contradicted, before both he and John burst into laughter again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Sherlock, do put on your trousers."

"Why should I?"

"You're about to meet a very important client. I suggest you put them on."

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"A client you'll want to be wearing trousers to meet. Now put them on."

Apparently, Sherlock didn't quite like that answer. Without a word, he stood to leave, letting his sheet trail behind him. I reached a hand out to stop Mycroft, but my reaction was too late and he stepped on the end of Sherlock's sheet. Sherlock was caught unaware, and I made a small sound similar to an "eep!" when the sheet almost fell all the way down. Sherlock rushed to cover what he could and grabbed the sheet tightly.

"Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on," Mycroft demanded, sounding every bit the older brother.

"Get off my sheet," Sherlock said without turning around.

"Or what?" Mycroft challenged.

"Or..." Sherlock paused for a moment, "I'll just walk away." I felt my face turn fire engine red. I shot John a glance that screamed, _our relationship is NOT ready for this! I repeat, NOT ready!_ He grinned at me, clearly amused.

"No you won't."

I saw the tension in Sherlock's shoulders before I heard it in his voice. "Who is my _client?!" _I recoiled a bit from the sound. His voice had become suddenly harsh.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Take a look around. Who do you think? Now get dressed!" Sherlock stood still for a moment, and the tension fell from his shoulders. Without a word, he pulled the sheet back up over his shoulders with a hard yank and grabbed the clothes from the table, not looking at John or I as he left to change. Mycroft looked after him while John chuckled. I gawped in the direction that Sherlock had gone.

"You saw a fair amount, judging by the color of your ears," John laughed.

I felt as if my eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. "I saw enough. Whoo. I saw_ plenty."_


	8. Chapter 8

Mary

"My client has a problem."

I looked up at the man across from us. He was on the small side and had a funny way of talking about the Queen. He kept saying "my client", but I wondered why he bothered. We were in Buckingham Palace, for God's sake.

Mycroft cut in, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's. "A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature. It is in this hour of need, dear brother, that your name has arisen."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. I watched his fingers drum as he spoke. "Why? You have a police force and a secret service of marginal intelligence. Why come to me?"

"It is a matter of extreme delicacy, and therefore trust," said Mycroft.

I blinked, letting the absurdity of that statement hit me. "What, you can't trust your own secret service?" I joked. Both Mycroft and Mr. "My Client" turned their eyes to me, clearly unamused. Mr. "My Client" turned to Mycroft.

"Who is the American?" he asked.

Mycroft sighed, seeming deeply embarrassed. Before he could answer I held up a hand in a small wave. "Mary Fisher. Hi. Yeah, American but not _American, _if you know what I mean. There is a definite reason I live here and not there."

The man seemed suspicious of me, but dropped the mistrusting gaze. "Indeed. Well, Miss Fisher, to answer your question-"

"Of course we can't trust the Secret Service. They all spy on people for money," Mycroft interjected.

"Y-yes. Thank you Mycroft," Mr. "My Client" said wearily.

Mycroft opened his suitcase and handed a large photo to Sherlock. I peeked over his shoulder at it. It was a slightly blurry picture of a woman that had no idea her picture was being taken.

"What do you know about this woman?" Mycroft asked. I felt John peering over my shoulder, so I leaned on Sherlock a bit to give him a better look. Sherlock tried to lean away, but had little to no room, so he simply stared at me until I looked up.

"Oh! Haha. Hm. Sorry," I apologized, shoving John back to the other side of the couch.

Sherlock studied the picture closely and finally answered, "Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should pay more attention," said Mycroft, "She's been at the center of two political scandals in the past year and recently ended the marriage of a successful novelist by having an affair with both parties separately."

I felt my eyes widen to where it had to be noticeable. I turned to John, who choked on his tea. Sherlock seemed less than interested.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," he muttered, not missing a beat, "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler. Professionally known as The Woman," Mycroft answered.

"Professionally?" John asked.

"There are many names for what she does," Mycroft explained. "She prefers dominatrix."

Sherlock asked, "Dominatrix?" while John and I shared a wide eyed look that said, _we're chasing down a dominatrix, holy crap. _

"Don't be alarmed. Has to do with sex," Mycroft said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Mycroft challenged, hiding his smugness with a neutral expression. I felt my mouth fall open as I processed the question. In the awkward silence that followed, I felt the burning need to defend Sherlock somehow. I racked my brain for a clever response.

What came out was, "Wow. Rude."

Mycroft smirked at me before continuing. As the details of the case unfolded, I could feel the royal drama just falling on my head. I wasn't even from England and I knew that the country would fall apart if any of this ridiculous scandal came to light. At first, Sherlock insisted that they simply pay her the money and get on with their lives, but from what I understood, she was simply holding them. Sherlock seemed excited by the idea. "Ooh, a power play," he said, "Now it's getting interesting."

When we stood to leave, Mr. "My Client" asked when we'd have something.

"By the end of the day," Sherlock answered without turning around.

"You'll have news by the end of the day?" the man asked incredulously.

Before Sherlock turned around, I could see the gloating remark forming on his lips. "No, by the end of the day I'll have the pictures. Do you have a lighter?"

The man looked confused. "I...I don't smoke."

"No, but your employer does."

Mr. "My Client" was silent for a moment, unsure how to reply. I could tell he was uncomfortable. Apparently, the queen having a smoking habit was a big deal. "Well. We try to keep that fact out of view of the public."

"Well I'm not the commonwealth. Laters!," Sherlock stated simply, exiting the room.

John and I shared a look before he addressed the confused man in the doorway. "And that's as modest as he gets," John explained.

I grinned at John, rolling my eyes as we followed Sherlock out. "Man I wish I could look that cool when I left a room," I muttered.

With a quick stop at the flat to, according to Sherlock, put on our battle armor-Sherlock settled on a different scarf and I added leggings to combat the growing wind- the three of us took a taxi to the other side of town. Sherlock asked the cabbie to stop and we got out in front of an empty alley. I held my hands out in confusion.

"Um...where are we? I thought we were going to that lady's place," I asked.

"We're three blocks away but close enough," Sherlock answered. "You should probably take a few steps back."

"What? Why?" I asked.

Sherlock led John to stand in front of him. "Punch me in the face," he instructed.

John was caught off guard. "What?"

"I said punch me. Didn't you hear me?"

John gave a confused smirk. "I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're talking, but it's usually subtext."

I rolled my lips under to keep from laughing. "Um, Sherlock...I don't know if that's the best idea."

"Course it is. Now punch me, John."

"I don't know-"

Sherlock cut him off by punching him across the cheek, sending him reeling backwards. I yelped in surprise, backing up a couple of steps to avoid the recoil. John bounced back from the punch, sending a fist flying across Sherlock's cheekbone. After being thrown back with the force, Sherlock cradled his face.

"Alright great. I think this'll do fi-"

John leaped onto Sherlock's back, wrapping both arms around his neck.

"John. John!" Sherlock wheezed through the chokehold.

"I was in the army, _Sherlock_. I killed people!" John said. I tried prying him off, but I could see a huge vein standing out on his forehead.

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock yelled.

"I had bad days!" John yelled back.

"You two are ridiculous!" I yelled over the pair of them. "Get ahold of yourselves and let go of each other _now!" _I yanked John's arm off of Sherlock's neck and pulled him to the ground, not realizing until it was too late that he would land on me. I felt the breath leave me in a huge whoosh. John hurried to roll off of me while Sherlock rubbed his throat and coughed.

"I am so sorry. Are you alright?" John asked, offering me a hand up.

I pushed it away, brushing the gravel off of my skirt. "I'm fine," I mumbled. I glared at both of them before walking off. "Idiots."

Just down the street, we found what I hoped was Irene Adler's front door. Sherlock stuffed a small slip of paper under his collar and instructed John and I to wait out of sight of the peephole until he got access inside. As he rang the doorbell, I watched his entire character change to that of a frightened priest. The dedication to the disguise was absolutely shocking, and just watching the performance gave me chills.

"Hello? Um. I, um. I've just been attacked," Sherlock said to the peephole, pressing a kleenex to the barely bleeding cut on his cheek. I glanced down at John's hand, where his middle knuckle was beginning to turn a bright red.

There was an audible click and a voice from inside the house addressed us. "I can call the police if you'd like."

"Yes, please. Do you mind if I just wait here until they arrive? Thank you. Thank you so much," Sherlock blubbered. Then, he began to cry. He actually cried. I gaped at him, in complete disbelief at what I was seeing. Within moments, the door buzzed open. After Sherlock made it through the door, John and I slipped in behind him.

"I'm a doctor. I saw everything," John said. "Have you got a first aid kit?"

"Upstairs," the well-dressed woman answered, before turning to look at me. Panic stabbed at my mind. _John's a doctor, so who are you? Quick! Think of something! She's staring at you like you're nuts! Think of something ohmygod-_

"I'm the doctor's girlfriend. I saw it too. It was awful." I wrung my hands together, unsure of what else to say. "Do you mind if I wait with the priest? He seemed awfully shaken."

"Of course. He's right upstairs," she replied, pointing me to the staircase.

Sherlock sat on a white couch in a small sitting room across from a fireplace with a large mirror over the mantle. He was still blubbering into the kleenex, but when he recognized me, he dropped the kleenex to his lap. The change was so immediate and seamless that I didn't quite know how to react. Instead of trying to find a response, I sat beside him. Footsteps approached down the hall and I watched the change all over again.

"Would you like some tea? I'm afraid Kate didn't quite catch your name," said a voice from the doorway. Both Sherlock and I turned to look and fell completely silent. A tall, slender woman stood in the doorway smirking at us with bright, red lips and mischievous pale eyes. She didn't have a single stitch of clothing on her. As more of an involuntary reaction than anything, I raised a hand behind me to cover Sherlock's eyes. He batted it away. The woman smiled like I'd just told a joke and circled around to the front of the couch, putting me at crotch level. I scooted back to the crease of the sofa cushions, completely unsure of how to handle the situation.

"Always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright," she said in a voice that belonged in an old crime film. I watched as her gaze swept over him and wondered if I should cover him up or something. "Look at those cheekbones," she noted with a smile. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" She then slipped the paper out from under his collar and clasped it between her teeth. I recoiled, eyes wide and confused like a deer in headlights.

"Alright this should do it," I heard John mutter from the doorway. All three of us turned to look at him. I could feel my eyes crying for help, and I watched John's gaze travel from Sherlock to the woman to me. He stared at us over the tray of tea in his hands and blinked. "I've missed something, haven't I?"


	9. Chapter 9

Mary

Ten minutes later, Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, pacing and discussing the dead guy I'd investigated earlier that day. Irene had expressed an interest in the case, and I watched with fascination as Sherlock used the case to find the pictures that Irene had hidden in the room. John had left the room, although I suspected he'd left to do more than guard the door as Sherlock had instructed. As I listened to Sherlock walk Irene through the case, I remembered that I knew the solution. Excitedly, I threw my hand in the air like I was in grade school again. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Mary?"

"I know how it happened! I forgot but I figured it out! I would have told John if the stupid helicopter hadn't kidnapped us!" I explained, talking a mile a minute.

Sherlock studied my expression and gave a half-smirk. "My word. You do know. Well, keep it to yourself," he instructed, and turning to Irene, said, "Alright. My resident woman-child has the case figured out. Let's see if you can match her intellect."

Irene spared me a glance before wrapping Sherlock's coat more tightly around her and returning her attention to him. I wanted to weep for that jacket. It was a beautiful duster, and now it had some crazy naked lady rubbing all over it. _I'll have to submerge it in holy water when we get home,_ I thought disappointedly.

"So the driver is in his car and the hiker is out in the field looking over the lake. Then the car backfires and makes a loud noise."

"Then what happens?" Sherlock asked.

"The hiker dies," Irene answered.

"No no, that's the result. What _happens?" _

"I don't understand."

"Well try to. You cater to the whims of the pathetic, taking off your clothes to make an impression. Now stop boring me and think. _It's the new sexy,_" he mocked. I found myself unable to figure out if he was really irritated with her or if this was some bizarre form of flirting. I shifted on the couch uncomfortably.

"There's a noise," Irene says.

"Yes, and noises are very important. Noises can tell us everything. For instance..." Sherlock trailed off, looking down at Irene. I looked at her as well, trying to find whatever it was that caught his eye. Suddenly, the fire alarm went off. I watched as her gaze flew to the mirror on the wall. Sherlock smiled.

"Thank you. Fire exposes our priorities," Sherlock explained, examining the mantle. "A mother would look to her child when hearing a smoke alarm." I heard a small "click" as he found a button on the underside of the mantle and watched as the mirror rose, revealing a small safe. Sherlock turned to us and said, "I really hope you don't have a baby in here. Alright John, turn it off!" The smoke alarm continued to beep.

"John, turn it off!" Sherlock yelled.

"Give me a minute!" John yelled up the stairs. The smoke alarm was silenced abruptly.

"Ah. There we are. Now then," Sherlock continued, examining the buttons. "You really should wear gloves when using these things. Large oil deposit on the first number, so it starts with a three. Maker suggests a six digit code. Can't be your birthday. No offense," he said, looking over his shoulder at Irene, "but clearly you were born in the eighties."

"I'd tell you the combination right now," Irene said, interrupting his deducting, "But you see, I already have."

Sherlock and I shared a look of confusion and he returned his gaze to her. "Think," she said.

Before he had a chance to, the door was thrown open and John was led inside by three men with guns.

"On the ground, Ms. Adler and company," one of them said, waving a gun at me. Being naturally extremely averse to gunshot wounds, I got on my knees beside where they'd forced John into a kneeling position. His hands were laced over his head, and he had a gun pointed at his skull, but he looked up at me and, probably seeing the panic in my eyes, mouthed, _it's going to be alright. I promise._ I laced my fingers over my head and lowered my gaze to the ground.

"Do you want me on the ground, too?" Sherlock asked. _Honestly, there are guns pointed at us and I can STILL hear condescending sarcasm in your voice,_ I thought, irritated.

"No, Mr. Holmes," the man said, raising his gun to where it was at eye level with Sherlock. "I want you to open that safe."

"American," Sherlock uttered. "Interesting."

"I apologize for my nationality once again," I groaned. The man behind me gave me a short "whap" on the head with his gun and told me to shut up.

"We were listening and she said she gave you the code," the American said.

"Well if you were listening, you'd know she didn't," Sherlock replied.

"Open the safe by the count of five. Or my friend will have to shoot Miss Fisher here," he said simply, gesturing at me with his gun. I felt the cold steel of a gun barrel touching the nape of my neck and I yelped without meaning to. I saw John panicking out of the corner of my eye.

"One."

"Sherlock. Sherlock, do something."

"I don't know the code!"

"Two."

"Sherlock!"

"Three."

"I _don't know!"_

_"_Sherlock, they'll kill her!"

I looked up as best I could, watching Sherlock from beneath a fringe of curls. He argued with the American, his eyes angry and full of something I'd never seen before. Sherlock was afraid. Which meant I was doomed.

"Four."

"_Sherlock!" _I cried, sinking into myself and preparing for the worst.

"Five."

"Alright _stop! Stop!" _Sherlock insisted, turning to face the safe. He studied the buttons for a moment, and pushed a series of six. I silently prayed as he reached the last number. The safe beeped and unlocked. Relief flooded me, but only for a moment. Sherlock gave the door a small tug and I heard a miniscule click. I knew that Sherlock had heard it as well, because he glanced at Irene before turning back to the wall.

"Vatican cameos," he said. I looked to John, confused, and John glanced at the ground.

As Sherlock yanked the door open, adrenaline flooded my brain, slowing everything down. A gun went off, and the man over John fell to the floor, dead. I felt the gun barrel leave my neck and seized the moment, lifting my feet and sliding backwards between my attacker's legs until I was crouched behind him. Before he could react, I threw my arm up into him, racking him and doubling him over. I rose to my feet and stabbed his lower back with my elbow, causing him to fall to the floor and drop his gun. While he tried to catch his breath, I snagged the gun, caught off guard by the weight of it, and pointed it at him, my arms shaking with adrenaline. I took a quick look around the room. Sherlock had disarmed his attacker and left him unconscious. Irene pointed a gun at hers, and John simply sat on his knees between us, unsure of what to do.

"You gonna use that on me?" a voice asked from the floor. The man that had held the gun to my head was on his knees, trying to get up. I considered it, but the cold weight of the gun in my hands frightened me. I raised it and brought it down across his face, leaving him unconscious. Breathing heavily, I lowered the gun with a shaky hand. Another hand appeared in my line of vision, and I placed the gun into it, letting John take the sickening weight away from me.

Not missing a beat, Sherlock tucked the gun away and grabbed a small phone out of the safe. Irene dropped the gun, holding a hand out for the phone.

"I'll have that now," she said in a breathy voice.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why would I give it to you?"

"That phone is my life. It's my protection," she said.

"Protection? Why would you need protection?"

"We should probably call the police," John interjected.

"We should," said Sherlock, hurrying out the door and pocketing the phone. I followed behind, stuck between wanting to put distance between Irene and her phone and wanting to put distance between Irene and myself. When we reached the ground floor, Sherlock stepped out onto the front steps and shot his gun three times.

"Police are on their way," he said, returning inside. "John, see how they got in," John hurried off, leaving the three of us alone in a nearby room. As Sherlock and Irene talked, I stayed by the doorway, keeping an eye out for any other crazy Americans.

A surprised yell from Sherlock got my attention. I whirled around to find Sherlock holding his arm, which now had a syringe sticking out of it.

"What is that? What did you inject me with?" he demanded. I could hear the edge of panic in his voice. Without thinking, I barreled into Irene, throwing her to the ground.

"What's in that syringe?" I asked, pinning her to the floor. Irene fought against me and slipped free of my hands, socking me in the gut with both her hands balled together. I gasped for air and rolled off her, tears falling from the corners of my eyes as I struggled to breathe.

"I'll have that phone now, Mr. Holmes," Irene said, picking up a riding crop from the bedside table.

"No," was all he could manage. Unable to regain my breath, I watched her beat him with the riding crop through a veil of stars until he dropped it. Thanking him, Irene crossed the room to a nearby window. From the doorway, I heard John's voice.

"What-what the bloody hell did you do to them?!" John asked, his voice frantic as he came into view. He dropped to his knees, looking me over for any wounds.

"I'm fine," I coughed, "She stuck Sherlock with something."

John pulled the syringe out of Sherlock's arm while Sherlock struggled to get up off the ground. "What did you give him?"

"He'll be fine. Just make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit," Irene replied from behind me. "Makes for a very unattractive corpse." There was a silence so long that I assumed she'd left when she continued, "He's much more than I expected. I can't believe he got the code right."

John forgot his medical duties for a moment and indulged his curiosity. "What was it?" he asked.

"My measurements."

Within minutes after Irene's departure, the police arrived. I was able to walk, but could feel a large bruise forming on my stomach. Sherlock had quickly passed out, and was now dead to the world, leaving John and I to drag him to the car after answering far too many questions for the state we were in. When we arrived back at the flat and got Sherlock up the stairs and in bed, a thought occurred to me.

"What is it?" John asked, handing me a bag of frozen peas for my stomach and sitting beside me on the couch.

I frowned, wincing at the pain in my stomach. "She stole his jacket. He's going to be so upset. Dangit. _I _wanted to steal that jacket."


	10. Chapter 10

Mary

I awoke to a dry mouth and a sore body. Soft, afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, warming my face. I kept my eyes closed for a bit, feeling out my surroundings. I was covered in a light blanket up to my chin, and my upper body rested against something soft. Something soft that moved. I tugged my eyelids open, squinting at the room around me. I could see specks of dust swirling in the rich, golden rays of light streaming from the windows. Still trying to wake up all of my muscles, I shifted my head to where I could see what I was laying on. My vision blurred for a moment, struggling to focus. After a moment of alternating squinted and wide eyes, I discovered that I was laying against John's chest. The soft material I'd felt was a thick, beige sweater that had left a patterned imprint on the side of my face. He was asleep, probably exhausted. As I tried to figure out how I'd ended up here, I remembered the day's events. I rubbed my eyes, trying to figure out how to get off of John without making it weird.

_Oops. Too late,_ I thought as his eyes fluttered open. I froze, unsure whether to feign ignorance or just go with it. As his eyes focused, John furrowed his brow in confusion, blinking himself awake.

"What...I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I guess I must've fallen asleep."

"Psh. I should be sorry. I slept all over you. Crap is that drool?" I asked, pointing at his sweater.

He glanced down, inspecting the spot with sleepy interest. "Who cares? Hungry?" he asked. I nodded sleepily, stretching my back out. "Alright. I'll order takeout."

I smirked, watching him stumble around to find his phone. Noticing his phone, I frantically searched for mine, hoping for and dreading missed calls. I found it stashed in the couch cushions, the screen completely blank. I checked my call logs, searching for anything from the agency.

"What's wrong?" John asked, standing in the doorway with his phone halfway up to his ear. I raised my gaze to meet his, and seeing the worry in his eyes, lowered my eyes to the floor.

"Nothing," I answered, setting my phone aside.

John sat beside me, leaning over until he found my gaze. "Still nothing from the agency, huh?" I grimaced, shaking my head. He studied me for a moment before placing a soft hand on my arm. "Um. I've got a sort of idea, if you're interested."

I looked up, cocking my head in interest. "I am now taking suggestions."

John gave a half-smile. "I hoped you were. You see, Sherlock and I...we're not really..._people_ people. You understand?"

"Oh more than you know," I replied.

"Well, since the blog's been started, we've had a simply enormous amount of cases come in. As you know, Sherlock spends hours rejecting people, and not doing it very nicely. I was thinking that maybe you could be...somewhat of a receptionist? Or a PR person? Something like that. Since we got in the papers, clients have just been pouring in."

I smiled at the possibility. "In the papers? When were you guys in the papers?"

"Recently, actually. I think Mrs. Hudson stole the clippings, but I put them up on my blog," John said, pulling out his laptop. Within a few clicks, he was at the homepage of his blog. He clicked on a green heading and it took him to a few pictures of newspaper clippings surrounded by tiny blurbs. I grinned at the headlines.

"_Hat-_man and Robin? Wow. Just wow. God, look at that hat. Did you see what Mrs. Hudson said about it?" I asked, pointing at the last few comments.

John read them and laughed. "He hates that stupid hat. But it's kind of become his...I dunno, trademark I guess."

"Oh really?" I said mischievously.

John met my gaze and saw my gears working. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing! So with this job, I'd be answering phones all day?"

John raised a suspicious eyebrow at me before answering my question. "More like emails. Sherlock's got a blog, too, and that's how people get a hold of him."

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. "Okay. One thing, though. I assume this will take care of my portion of the rent?"

"Of course."

"Well can I get a small allowance then? Don't take it wrong! Christmas is coming up."

John smiled. "You don't have to get us anything. I've got all I need and Sherlock...well, I doubt Sherlock would miss getting presents."

I drummed my fingers on my knee for a moment. "Okay, I get that, but gift giving is kind of in my nature. It has to be done. Christmas..." I looked away in a moment of surprisingly strong emotion, "was kind of a big deal back home."

John met my gaze with sympathetic eyes. "Alright," he said after a moment's pause, "consider it done. Rent paid and a small weekly allowance. Is it a deal?"

I grinned. "It's a deal," I said, sticking out my hand for a handshake. Once he grabbed it, I added, "Oh, as long as you help me pick out a gift for Sherlock, of course."

"What?!"

"Come on, John. The man is an island wrapped in an enigma wrapped in self-absorption. I'm at a loss already."

John groaned. Before he could give a reply, a muffled voice reminded me of our poor, drugged flatmate.

"John!" the voice yelled, incoherently. John and I both jumped, having forgotten that Sherlock was supposed to be unconscious.

"John!" Sherlock yelled again. A loud thump sounded from his room. John and I hurried to the door.

Upon entering the room, we found Sherlock struggling to haul himself out of bed. He stumbled, reaching for the wall and muttering about "The Woman".

"Where is she?"

"What? No one's here, Sherlock," John answered, catching him as his legs buckled.

I helped as best I could, considering that Sherlock had probably at least fifty pounds on me. "Sherlock, you really need to get back to bed. You've got to rest!" I insisted, pushing him back towards the bed with all of my strength.

"I need my coat," he mumbled, thrashing about in what I could only assume was his way of fighting back.

"Nonsense, Sherlock. Your coat's gone, remember? Now lay down. You'll feel fine in the morning," John insisted, tossing Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock flopped onto the sheets, face down, and continued to argue with his nose pressed into the mattress.

"What are you talking about? I'm fine. I'm fine now," Sherlock protested. John rolled his eyes and went to the doorway, one hand on the knob and waiting for me to leave so he could shut the door.

I waved him away. "Go on. I'm just going to tuck him in," I joked. John smirked and shrugged, leaving the door open behind him. I circled the bed to where I could actually see Sherlock's face. He was still awake, but completely spaced out. Almost fifteen seconds after I'd sat beside him, Sherlock rolled his eyes up to meet mine.

"Heya sleepy!" I said cheerfully. "How are you feeling? Need an icepack? Glass of water? More comfortable sleeping position?"

He seemed to struggle with processing my questions, but finally dragged his arms up far enough to situate himself to where his head was actually on the pillow. He flung one arm down in the general direction of the sheet, trying unsuccessfully to grab it. I lent him a hand, pulling the sheets up to his chin.

"I need my phone," he mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Sherlock, your phone is gone. Irene has it, or so I'd assume," I replied. "It was kidnapped along with your jacket. Do you want something I can actually get you?" I got nothing but silence for an answer, and noticed that Sherlock had fallen back asleep, snoring softly. Trying my hardest not to make a sound, I rose from the bed and tiptoed out the door, closing it behind me. John sat in his chair, typing what I assumed to be the latest case. I was just about to sit in Sherlock's chair across from him when an ungodly noise startled me.

A passionate female sigh sounded from behind me. I froze, a look of utter befuddlement forming on my face. John stopped typing and turned to look at me, his eyebrows almost in his hairline.

"Oh my God that was so not me," I whispered, feeling my face turn beet red. Frightened for Sherlock's safety, both John and I rushed back into his room, only to find him sleeping peacefully and undisturbed, just as I'd left him. I checked the corners of the room, closing the door to look behind it.

I screamed, bringing John into the room with his fists at the ready and startling Sherlock awake. He bolted upright in bed, asking groggily, "What? What is it?"

"_Demon coat!_" I squealed, cowering behind John. John inspected the coat hanging off of the bedroom door.

"Well...it looks like it. It really does, but this can't be it," he muttered to himself, checking all of the pockets inside and out. "This can't be the same-" John fell silent as he pulled Sherlock's phone out of one of the pockets.

I gaped. "What? How?! How'd she get in?" I asked, looking the phone over. Sure enough, it was his. A text waited on the screen.

"Through the window," Sherlock answered from beside me, making me jump. "My phone, if you please." Wordlessly, I handed it to him. He checked it and put it away without answering. Before I could ask, he addressed me. "So, you're the new secretary?"

John moved away from the window and looked at Sherlock. "How'd you know that? You were completely loopy. You still are," John noted as Sherlock wobbled against the bed. I held out an arm for him to steady himself on.

"I'm always listening. You know that."

"I prefer PR," I interjected, giving my most award-winning smile. "And I would like the position starting now, if it's alright with you."

He considered it for a minute. "If it means I have less people to kick out of my flat on a daily basis, I'd say we have a deal," he answered, holding out a hand. I grasped it with the hand I'd been supporting him with. It was an involuntary reaction that I immediately regretted as Sherlock collapsed to the floor. John sighed, picking him back up and practically throwing him onto the bed.

"Welcome to the team," Sherlock said, his voice becoming thick with sleep again.

John haphazardly threw the sheets across him and took his phone away, placing it back in the coat pocket. "Now get some bloody sleep, and no messing with your phone until the morning, got it?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson," Sherlock muttered, sloppily saluting him before letting his hand drop back to the bed beside him.


	11. Chapter 11

Mary

"_It's snowing!" _I declared in a high pitched, girly yell as I threw open John's bedroom door and bounded onto the foot of his bed. John's eyes popped open and he bolted halfway upright, scooting back until he rested against the headboard. He watched me jump up and down on the bed with complete bewilderment, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"What?"

"It's _snowing,_ John. Didn't you hear her?" came Sherlock's muffled voice from the next room. "I know I did."

John squinted at the wall separating the bedrooms and then at me. "Wh...why is that so impor...What time is it?" he muttered, searching the bedside table for his phone. He took too long, so I hopped down and tossed it to him from the pair of pants he'd left it in.

"To answer your unfinished question, snow is important because I am from the _very_ southern United States and I've never seen snow," I explained, rummaging through John's dresser for a suitable shirt. "To answer your finished question, it is exactly-"

"Eight thirty two in the _morning?!_" John interrupted, his voice becoming almost a whine. "Why the hell did you wake me up so early?!"

"Keep it down, would you?! Some of us don't have a reason to be up this early!" Sherlock yelled from his room. I clapped my hands over my mouth, stifling a giggle and saw John still glaring at me.

"What, you really don't remember?" I asked, backing up to stand against the calender on John's wall. He simply shook his head. "_John!_" I whined, "You're taking me Christmas shopping! How could you forget?!"

Oh! Right. Right, well, I knew that," John responded, sitting upright and examining his phone again, "But...why are we up at eight thirty two in the morning?"

"Because! The crowds are gonna be insane and I want to get an early start! It's freakin' Christmas Eve!" I exclaimed, hopping with excitement.

"Okay, okay. But _why_ eight thirty two? The shops don't open till eleven, and you're not dressed yet!"

I raised an eyebrow and looked down at my red, lace dress that flowed to the middle of my thighs, revealing bright blue stockings with snowflakes on it. "What are you talking about? Of course I'm dressed! I put on makeup and everything, see?" I said, closing my eyes so he could see the winged outline I'd done around my eyes.

John gave a short bark of laughter. "Not for this weather, you're not," he scoffed.

"Oh come on. It can't be _that _cold."

John's resulting laughter was met by Sherlock's laughter from the next room. I frowned at John and the wall in turn.

"Go have a look outside and tell him that," Sherlock said.

"Stop listening and go back to bed, Sherlock!" I yelled, stomping my foot. John continued laughing, so I addressed him. "Fine. I'll go outside. Still won't be that cold," I insisted, sticking my tongue out at John.

A few minutes later, I sat curled in a ball on the living room couch, staring grumpily at John and Sherlock, who sat in their chairs.

"The parka's a nice touch. Makes you look like a little, green snowman," John teased, blowing on the tea in his hands. I glared at him, holding my knees as close to my chest as the parka and snow pants would allow.

"You shush," I told him, wrapping my hands tightly around the cup of tea that balanced atop my knees. I spared a glance at Sherlock, who barely hid a smirk behind the morning paper. "You shush too!"

"I haven't said anything."

"You were thinking too loud."

A woman's sigh punctuated the silence, making me jump hard enough to spill my tea down my front.

"Oh! God, are you alright?" John asked, rushing to help me.

I held up a hand as I set the cup on the coffee table. "Don't bother. Couldn't feel a thing," I replied, slipping the parka off and setting it aside. I glanced at Sherlock, who was gazing at his phone silently. "Irene again?"

He put the phone down and raised the paper a bit, making his eyes barely visible over it. "Who?"

"She's texted you a lot."

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock muttered, pulling the paper up higher until he was no longer visible.

I scowled, looking to John for help. He rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, we're not stupid. That phone was found in a jacket that looked absolutely like the jacket that-"

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock said without moving the paper.

I sighed in defeat and decided to change the subject. "So...why did Mycroft take us off the case? Did he say?"

"Nope. Simply said it was no longer a concern of mine. Don't you have work you're supposed to be doing? Emails to answer?"

"Psh. For your information, sir, all of the cases that were submitted this week were, at the very least silly, and at the most, utterly ridiculous. I'd like to spare them your intolerable cruelty, if I could."

"Oh but why? That takes the fun out of it," he said. I could hear the mischievous grin playing at his lips.

"Well, that's my job. Besides, in case you've forgotten, it's Christmas Eve. Technically, we're all off, including me. I've got Christmas shopping to do. Speaking of which, John? Are you about ready?"

John looked up at me, and then down at the tea in his hands. Probably processing the excited look on my face, he set the tea down and replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready. Sherlock, we'll be back later, alright?"

Sherlock simply waved three of the fingers on his left hand that weren't holding the paper.

John and I caught a taxi into town. As we entered the shopping district, I let John lead the way.

"Alright, so any ideas as to what you're getting Sherlock and I?" John asked, jamming his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

I shot him a smirk. "So expectant! I never said I was getting you anything."

His face fell as he cleared his throat. "Ah. Well, I...um."

"John," I said, clapping him on the back, "I'm totally joking." I watched as his expression changed to a jovial grin. "Your present has already been wrapped and hidden, actually. Now, where it's hidden is a completely different question."

"Hidden? Well, here's hoping Sherlock doesn't find it first."

"Nah. I'm pretty sure I hid it in a spot Sherlock would rather die than look in. Anyway, I'm not sure what to get him. What kind of stuff does he like?" I asked John, browsing the windows of the shops lining the street.

John shrugged, searching the windows as well. "Like I'd know."

"Well you'd know better than me! Think, man, think!"

"I dunno. Let's see. He enjoys smoking, playing the violin, wearing scarves, insulting the intelligence of others, and sticking disembodied limbs in the fridge. That's about all I know," John told me.

"Okay so scarves, violin, stupidity, limbs-wait, _limbs?! _What?!" John simply nodded. "In the fridge?! That's where I keep all my- you know what? Forget it. How could I expect any less? Oh hey wait! What about that place? You said he liked scarves," I said, hurrying across the street to a small shop with tons of flowing scarves hanging in the window. Within minutes, I'd hurried in and out of the shop.

"It's perfect!" I squealed, clutching the dark blue bag tightly.

"Seems like it," John agreed, "Although I'm not sure that particular animal represents me just right-"

"It's perfect!" I insisted. "Although..." I trailed off, slowing to a halt in front of the store next door, "it could use a little something extra." I let an impish grin spread across my face. John looked from me to the plaid deerstalker propped on a mannequin's head in the window. Pictures of a curly haired man wearing the deerstalker surrounded the display, tempting me.

"They really do pay attention to the internet, don't they?" John muttered, more to himself than to me. When I didn't reply, he glanced at me. "Oh God. You're not..."

"Oh I am."

"So is your girlfriend coming to the party?" I asked John as I leaned on the counter, my purchases in hand.

John, who was gazing without purpose around the small store, looked down at me. "Girlfriend? Oh! Jeanette. Um, yeah. She should be coming. Do you want me to carry either of those for you?"

"No, no. I'm fine," I answered, heading out the door. "Jeanette, huh? Is she nice?"

He considered the question for a moment, which concerned me, but answered satisfactorily. "Yeah, yeah. She's great. I think you'll like her."

"Really now?" I asked.

John smiled encouragingly and nodded. "Yes, really. I couldn't see you not liking someone."

I shrugged. "True I suppose." After a moment of hesitation, I asked, "Do you think she'd like me?"

John slowed to a stop, watching me with an odd mixture of concern and pity in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. How could she not?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that _oh my God_ I need this dress. Look!" I exclaimed, spinning him around to face the display window. A royal blue sash wrapped around the waist of a sleeveless a-line dress to the front where it was tied in a perfectly symmetrical bow. The dress had a Peter pan collar that matched the sash and glittery, ice-blue snowflakes in all different shapes and sizes cascading down the white material. I squealed, practically throwing myself against the glass and looking at John with my face pressed against the window.

"I need it," I insisted, my eyes wide.

"Then...get it?"

I briefly weighed my options, drumming my fingers on the glass. As I did so, I heard the store door open.

"Ma'am, please don't put your face on the...glass," an employee asked as I rushed inside, brushing him as I passed him. "...Thank you?"


	12. Chapter 12

Mary

In the living room, I could hear Sherlock playing Christmas melodies on his violin. I smoothed the skirt of my new dress one more time, looking at the glittering snowflakes in the mirror attached to the wardrobe door. I glanced at the three small boxes I'd arranged together on the bed. John's present had been wrapped in blue, Mrs. Hudson's was wrapped in emerald green, and Sherlock's was wrapped in a bright gold that matched the embroidery on the scarf inside the box. As I examined my small gifts, my nerves began to fray, and I opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom just wide enough to peek outside. Mrs. Hudson, John, a tall, authoritative looking woman who I could only assume was Jeanette, and Lestrade sat quietly, drinks in hand, listening to Sherlock play. Gifts sat in piles beneath the tree, and everyone wore Christmas sweaters. _Oh God,_ I thought,_ I'm completely overdressed. _I decided I'd have to change. I closed the door as quickly and quietly as I could. Just as I got a hold of the zipper, there was a knock on the door.

"Mary? Are you alright in there?" John asked quietly. For a moment, I stood completely still, not making a sound and hoping he'd think I wasn't in there.

"The only way you could have left is through the window, and I'm pretty sure I would have heard. The whole street would have heard. Let me in."

I groaned, pulling the door open just enough for John to slip through. He shut the door behind him and looked me over. "What's wrong?"

I crossed my arms over my stomach, giving him an assured smile. "Nothing! Nothing's wrong."

He narrowed his eyes at me, waiting for my smile to falter. "Liar."

I pushed my lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. "I'm _fine._ I just...I feel...silly. Overdressed. Just...stupid."

"Overdressed? Why would you feel that way?"

I directed my gaze down at my emerald green heels and back up at John. I held out my hands, trying to emphasize the issue.

John stared at me blankly. "I...I don't...Look, it doesn't matter. You look gorgeous, alright?"

I felt my face light up involuntarily. "I do?"

"No one puts together an outfit like that unless they expect to look nothing less than perfect," John replied.

My brow creased in confusion. "Um. I don't know how to take that, so I'll just take it as a compliment."

"Good! It was meant as one."

I exhaled, crossing my arms in my lap. "I guess I'm just nervous. I'm a little bad at meeting new people."

John scoffed. "No you're not. You're the PR person. If you're nervous, consider this...on the job training."

"Training," I repeated. "Yep. That helped. Way to pep talk, Watson."

John sighed. "Sorry. I'm not good at this whole comforting thing," he said helplessly. After a moment of thought, he rummaged in his pocket. "Maybe this will help," he offered, pulling out a small box.

I looked at the box and then up at him. "Um. John. I love you to death and all, but uh. I don't know if our relationship is ready for all that," I joked.

"Haha. Very funny. If you're going to be an arse about it, I can just take it back-"

"No! No, I'm sorry. I like getting gifts," I protested, taking the tediously wrapped box from his hand. "Can I open it now?"

"That's why I gave it to you."

"Yay!" I squeaked, tearing into the paper. Once I'd unwrapped it, I opened the box to find a pair of intricate snowflakes, molded out of silver with immense detail. Slender hooks extended from the tops of them, making them a delicate pair of earrings. I stared at them wordlessly for long enough to make John worry.

"Do...you not like them?" he asked. I could hear disappointment in his voice.

I clutched the box tightly as I threw my arms around his neck. "They're awesome!" I said excitedly. "I love them! Seriously. Thank you."

John seemed caught off guard by the show of affection. His ears turned the slightest shade of pink, and he smiled at the ground. "You're welcome. Hey, does this mean that I-"

I cut him off, holding the blue box out to him. "Open it now before your girlfriend sees," I joked.

He grinned, pocketing the box. "I think I'll save it. Besides, the party's still waiting on you."

I scowled. "Dangit. You saw through my master plan. Alright, let me put these on. You'd better get back to the party before they start to wonder who kidnapped you."

John gave me a suspicious look. "Alright," he replied, "but if you're not out there right after me, I'm coming back."

"Yes, sir," I answered, shooing him out the door and returning to the mirror.

A few moments later, I took a deep breath and entered the living room with Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's gifts in hand. As I entered, Sherlock had just finished a piece, and I could hear him speaking with Mrs. Hudson about it.

"Oh, that was lovely Sherlock. I wish you could have worn the antlers," she said.

Sherlock smiled modestly, possibly for the first time since I met him, and replied, "Well, Mrs. Hudson, some things are better left to the imagination."

I stepped on a creaky floorboard, and suddenly all attention was on me. As the room fell silent and I felt a wild blush creeping up my neck, I briefly considered taking John's earlier idea and jumping out the window headfirst. Before I could give into the bolting instinct, Mrs. Hudson smiled at me.

"Oh my! Mary, you look positively beautiful," she expressed, beaming at me before looking up at Sherlock. "Doesn't she look beautiful, Sherlock?" Sherlock met her gaze before turning to study me. He gave me a hard once over, making me blush harder, but I held his gaze, trying my hardest not to look down. Finally, he gave the smallest of smiles, making sure to make direct eye contact with me as he did so.

"Yes. Yes she does," he answered. Finding new confidence, I crossed the room, but held back when John's girlfriend approached Sherlock. She was slender and held an air of authority. She wore a no nonsense dress that screamed teacher, and an expression that told me she wore the pants in the relationship. I took a step back, avoiding her gaze.

"Sherlock. Nice to see you," she said, holding out a hand.

Sherlock held his violin beneath one arm and shook her hand. "Yes, nice to see you too, Sarah."

Immediately, Jeanette's expression sunk into one of irritation. I gasped involuntarily, attracting both parties' attention. I clapped one hand over my mouth, muttering, "Ignore me."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock. Jeanette looked at me expectantly, and John looked just about ready to run for the hills.

I hesitated, unsure of whether or not answering him would cause a fight. "Um...that's not Sarah," I mumbled, biting my lip.

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "She's not?"

"No, Sherlock, she's not," John repeated, clearly annoyed. "This is-"

"No, no wait! I know this," Sherlock insisted. Behind he and Jeanette, I could see Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson beginning to watch the scene unfolding. "Okay after Sarah, there was the blonde, the one with the spots...Hm. Who came after the boring teacher?" My eyes widened.

"No one," Jeanette replied through clenched teeth.

"Ah! Jeanette. Process of elimination," Sherlock said as he took a seat in front of John's laptop, completely oblivious to the murderous glare Jeanette was sending his way. I brought a hand up to my forehead as John ushered Jeanette to a less irritating conversation with Lestrade. Placing my gifts on the coffee table in front of the couch, I stood between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, trying to see what Sherlock was up to.

"Sherlock! Really?! It's friggin' Christmas!" I scolded him, nudging him in the shoulder.

"What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"He's on John's blog! That's my job, remember?"

"Then you haven't been doing your job very well. Oh God no," he said abruptly, rolling his eyes away from the door. I looked up and watched a sort of nervous looking woman enter in a long, black coat. Her hair was pulled back from her face in carefully styled waves, and, by the way Sherlock had reacted, I could only assume that this was Molly. As the other guests greeted her, she began to unbutton her coat, and before she'd even opened it, I knew I wouldn't be the most dressed up person anymore. Beneath the coat, she wore a fitted, black dress with champagne colored rhinestones in a thick border across the neckline. I nearly choked when I saw Lestrade staring at her. In fact, the only person that didn't seem to be staring at her was Sherlock, who seemed very distressed about the blog.

"John! Something's wrong with your blog."

"What do you mean? Nothing's wrong with it. I was on it yesterday," I insisted as John joined us.

"The counter's stuck at 1895, and it's been that way since last night."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh no. Christmas will have to be canceled," I joked.

Sherlock studied the page closer, and a look of outrage crossed his face. "You put up a picture of me wearing _that_ hat?!" he asked in disbelief, glaring at John.

John held up his hands. "Don't look at me. Mary put it up."

"Hey!" I protested.

"Besides," he added, "people like it."

"What?! No they don't. What people?! Mary!" He began to look like a small child throwing a tantrum. I quickly joined Mrs. Hudson on the couch to avoid his hissy fit.

"Wine?" John offered, passing by me.

I waved my hand in a negative gesture. "No thanks. Not a huge wine person."

"How's the hip, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked.

"Terrible, dear, but thank you for asking," Mrs. Hudson answered.

Molly smiled. "Don't worry, I've seen worse. But then again, I do post mortems." The room fell absolutely silent. No one seemed to have much of a response to the statement. Molly raised a hand to her lips. "Oh God, I'm sorry."

"Molly, don't make jokes," Sherlock said without looking up. I looked at John, who cleared his throat and addressed Lestrade.

"So Greg. How's the wife?"

"Great! Back at home. Things are going well."

"Still with the P.E. Teacher," Sherlock muttered loudly enough to be heard. John scowled at Sherlock.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "How's Harry?" he asked John.

John raised his glass in a singular toast. "Good. Stopped drinking."

"Nope," Sherlock interjected. I could see irritation forming on John's face, so I tried to dissipate it a bit.

"You know, John? I think I will take that wine now," I hinted, gesturing over to the table by the door. As he left, Sherlock kept talking.

"Oh and have you all noticed? Molly's got a new boyfriend."

"Oh come off it," said Lestrade.

"Take the night off," John mumbled.

"Sherlock, please," said Mrs. Hudson. I simply groaned.

"No really!" he continued, standing up and crossing the room. "She's got a date with him tonight, and she's even gotten him a present. Did no one notice the gift at the top of the bag? Wrapped extremely well, while the others are slapdash at best, and color coordinated with her lipstick, unconscious decision or not. She's even dressed up to take away from her small lips and lacking br-"

He stopped midsentence, and my jaw dropped as Molly's expression told me everything I needed to know.

"Oh my God," I whispered, completely mortified for both of them. I dropped my head into my hands.

After a moment of silence, Molly said in a shaky voice, "You always say such horrible things."

"I...I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

I looked up, trying to figure out who had just said that. _That couldn't have been Sherlock of all people, could it?_ I asked myself as John handed me a glass of wine. With the entire room watching, Sherlock kissed Molly on the cheek. I began to chug my wine, hoping that, should the evening get any weirder, at least I'd be drunk for it.

A woman moaned passionately, and Molly gasped, making me spit out my drink.

"That-that wasn't me!" she insisted, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"No, that was me," Sherlock said.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "It was?!" he asked. The look on his face made me laugh hard enough to nearly fall off the couch. "What? What's so funny?"

"It's...it's a text tone!" I forced out in between peals of laughter. "Oh. Oh my God, that was good. I need to use the bathroom. 'Scuse me."

When I returned from the restroom, Sherlock was missing from the group. I asked John where he'd gone, and John pointed me in the direction of his room. Seeing an opportunity, I grabbed Sherlock's present from the coffee table and approached his room. The door stood slightly open, and I could hear Sherlock speaking in a hushed tone.

"Mycroft, I think you're going to find the woman tonight," he said. I crept closer to the door, struggling to hear what was said on the other side of the line. "No, you don't understand. You're going to find her dead." Another pause. "She held an item that she called her life, her protection." Pause. "Now she's chosen to give that item up." Pause, and then click as he hung up. I came out of hiding, knocking lightly on the door.

"Are...you okay?" I asked hesitantly. Without looking up from the phone in his hand, Sherlock uttered a short, "Yes," and shut the door in my face, startling me enough to make me clutch the gift tightly to my chest. I stood, staring at the door for a moment, unsure whether to persist or not. In the end, I looked down at the gold wrapping paper, drummed my thumbs on it, and placed it on the mantle beside Sherlock's skull before returning to the party.


	13. Chapter 13

Mary

It had been almost an hour since Sherlock had left, and my stomach had began to knot. Sherlock had rushed out without saying goodbye, apparently in a hurry to identify Irene's dead body. I looked at John, who paced the room nervously.

"Okay, so...how do we handle this?" I asked. "I mean, as much as she freaked me out, obviously she got Sherlock's attention. What do we do?"

John ran a hand through his hair. Behind him, Jeanette sat, sulking only slightly, on the couch. "I dunno. Never had a situation like this before. One thing we must do, though," he said, nodding at Mrs. Hudson before meeting my gaze, "is check the flat."

"Check the flat? For what?" I inquired.

"Narcotics. I told Mycroft to offer him a cigarette and gauge how bad it is from that," John explained.

"And if he takes the cigarette?"

"Definitely a danger night."

My brow creased with worry. "Okay, okay. Does he have usual hiding places? I need a list."

Top to bottom, we tore the flat apart searching for any sign of drugs, but came up empty handed. As we searched, Jeanette watched with disinterest. I found myself huffing with frustration as I tore through Sherlock's sock drawer.

_If Sherlock wasn't such a jerk, she'd probably be helping right now, _one part of me thought.

_Yes, _I agreed, _but this is bigger than being a butthead. John and Mrs. Hudson seem legitimately scared for his safety. Having your boyfriend's best friend in danger should be reason enough for her to help._ Finding nothing, I stuffed all of the socks back into the drawer and shut it, stomping out of the room. I stopped in the doorway, sparing a glance at the gift I'd left on the mantle beside the grinning skull that Sherlock seemed so fond of. The skull watched me with eyeless sockets. I grew uncomfortable.

"Oh, stop judging me," I muttered. "I'll give it to him later." Leaving the judgmental skull behind, I took a seat on the couch as far from Jeanette as possible. John crossed the living room, heading for the bathroom when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen only briefly before picking up.

_Who is it?_ I mouthed, hoping for a call from Sherlock.

_Mycroft, _he mouthed back. I groaned, sinking back into the couch.

John listened for a moment before speaking. "Did he take the cigarette?" I crossed my fingers, hoping for the best. "Shit," John said, giving me a nod.

"There's nothing in the bedroom," I said with a shrug.

"We've checked all the usual places," said John, "Are you _sure_ tonight's a danger night?" I rose to stand beside him and pulled the phone down to where I could hear it, too.

"You've got to stay with him, John," said Mycroft.

John opened his mouth to reply and looked at Jeanette, who held an angry scowl on her face. "But...but I've got plans." Mycroft fell silent and the line went dead. Jeanette looked about ready to boil over. John sighed in defeat. I placed a hand on his arm.

"You know, I could stay with him. I don't have any plans," I offered.

John looked down at me. "Really? Are you sure you-" He stopped, looking at Mrs. Hudson behind me. I turned to see a look of utter disappointment forming on her face. He gave a pained sigh. "No, no. I'll stay as well. It wouldn't be right to leave you to watch him alone."

"You sure? I could handle it. Really."

"No...no. I should stay," he said a bit more firmly. Giving Mrs. Hudson a look over my head, he sat beside Jeanette on the couch. "I'm sorry," he told her.

Jeanette's expression became completely neutral, surprising me. "You know, people are wrong about you. You're a great boyfriend."

I recoiled from the statement, and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "She's taking this freakishly well. I think I might like her," I whispered.

"Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man."

"Oh. Oh, there it is," I whispered. "Never mind. She's gonna dump him."

"Oh no, Jeanette. Come on," John protested.

Jeanette snapped her purse shut, crossing the room to the door. "No really! You'd do anything for him. It's adorable."

"Look, I'm sorry. I'll come by tomorrow. I'll walk your dog."

The look Jeanette shot him terrified me a bit. "I don't have a dog," she said from between clenched teeth. Mrs. Hudson made a small, "oh," and I covered my face with my hands, muttering, "Oh my God, John."

"No...no you don't. Because that was the last one-_sorry,"_ he said, cringing.

Jeanette's mouth opened wide with disgust. "Oh my _God!"_ she said, grabbing her scarf and heading down the stairs.

John watched her go. "I'll call you tomorrow, then?"

"No you won't."

"Okay."

"Wow," I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

John looked at me, confused by my defensive stance. "What?"

"That was literally the most painful thing I've ever watched," I said, going to stand in front of him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I suggested, "Maybe it's time to take a little break from dating, hm?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but in the end, he replied, "Yeah. Yeah, probably."

I patted his shoulder encouragingly. "You know, I think now might be a good time for presents."

"Presents?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "You didn't have to get me anything."

I waved away her comment. "How could I forget you, Mrs. Hudson? Especially after you gave me what might possibly be the most _fabulous_ cloche hat in history?" Mrs. Hudson smiled bashfully, looking at the table where I'd set the royal blue hat. A sparkling, silver band circled the hat, meeting on the side in a perfect bow.

"Now, please, guys. Sit down." Both John and Mrs. Hudson sat side by side on the couch. "Mrs. Hudson, your present is on the coffee table," I said, gesturing to the green box in front of her. "And John, I assume you still have your present on you?"

"You assume correctly," he replied as Mrs. Hudson picked up her present.

She made a small sound of surprise. "Oh my! What lovely paper," she said, turning the box over in her hands. John and I watched patiently, waiting for her to tear into it, but she started gingerly pulling on a piece of tape instead. The process took what felt like months.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said finally, "I've got an entire roll of that paper stashed under John's bed. I will give you the whole thing if you just tear the present open. Seriously." Obligingly, Mrs. Hudson ripped the paper open, revealing a small, cherry-colored box inside.

"Oh, Mary, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed upon opening it. A golden wreath with red and green leaves formed a perfect circle inside the box. Immediately, Mrs. Hudson took it out and pinned it to her sweater. "Thank you so much, dear. I love it. Truly I do."

I grinned, moving to sit between her and John. "It's just my way of thanking you for letting me stay," I said, hugging her tightly.

"Oh nonsense. I couldn't be happier to have you here. You know that. John, open yours."

Much more quickly than Mrs. Hudson, John tore into his paper and opened the box inside. He stared at them, speechless for a moment.

I leaned into him, nudging him to get his attention. "Do...you not like them?" I asked, a hesitant smile playing on my lips. John picked up one of the cufflinks and studied the three stripes of color that crossed their square shape.

"Unbelievable. You paid attention to the classification and everything," he muttered, placing the cufflink back in its box. He turned to me and held his arms open for a hug. I grinned, throwing my arms around his torso.

"So you like them? I know you don't wear long sleeves very often, but I thought-"

"I love them. Thank you," he said simply, cutting me off. "Look, Mrs. Hudson. Now everyone can feel like Sherlock and know I'm an army doctor just by looking at my cufflinks."

"Oh, how wonderful," she replied excitedly.

It began to grow late, and Sherlock was taking a while to return, so Mrs. Hudson decided to retire to bed, wishing John and I a Merry Christmas as she descended the stairs. John and I sat across from each other, drinking hot cocoa I'd made as we waited.

The slam of the door downstairs made me jump. Footsteps sounded up the stairs, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway behind John. John turned to look at him.

"Hi," John said, feeling out the atmosphere. Sherlock was silent, scanning the room.

"There's hot chocolate if you want some," I said, gesturing to the kitchen.

Just as I thought Sherlock would never reply, he looked from John to me and back again. "I hope you didn't mess up my sock index," he said, going into his room.

_Sock index?_ I mouthed to myself before realizing what he meant. I heard one of Sherlock's drawers slam shut.

"Oops," I said quietly. Sherlock didn't come out of his room, and I decided to check on him, mainly to give him his present. When John got up to use the restroom, I hurried to Sherlock's door with the gold-wrapped box in hand. I knocked, but got no answer.

"Sherlock?" I eased the door open just a bit to see if he was still awake. He sat on the opposite side of the bed, one leg pulled up and underneath the other. He leaned on one knee, and from my position, I could tell he was listening, but unwilling to speak.

"Look, I know this might not be a great time, but...I gave everyone else their gift and thought I'd give you yours." Sherlock turned slightly, to where I could see little more than his cheek as I circled the bed. "Here," I said, handing him the box. I waited patiently as he tore it open.

Moments later, the deerstalker inside the box smacked me in the face. I recoiled, surprised, and caught the hat in my hands.

"Oh. OH," I said, embarrassed. "Oops. I forgot." Wordlessly, Sherlock rose and began escorting me to the door. "Oh come on! Don't be a butt! It was supposed to be a joke! Really! My comedic timing was just complete crap- look!" I exclaimed, holding the hat open. "The real gift's inside."

Sherlock gave me his trademark look of bored disinterest, and took a deep breath, exhaling it before looking in the hat and pulling out the scarf I'd bought him. His expression changed as he looked at it, noting the golden thread that traveled down the edge of it to lead into a small bird, hovering above a round little animal that resembled a hedgehog on one of the tails of the scarf. The smallest, barest hint of a smile curved the corners of his mouth.

"I guess he does resemble a hedgehog a bit, doesn't he?" Sherlock muttered, folding the scarf and laying it on the bed. My heart skipped a beat as he leaned towards me and placed a soft hand on my left cheek, kissing me lightly on my right. An awkward silence ensued as he returned to his full height and stood motionless in front of me. I waited for some sort of comment, but received nothing as Sherlock turned away. I cleared my throat.

"I don't know if you heard me before, but there's hot chocolate. I'll, uh, be in the living room if you need me," I said, hurrying out of the room and closing the door behind me. John sat in his chair, watching me with an amused smile.

"You turn any redder you'll match the Christmas decorations," he teased.

As the clock hands moved from night into the early hours of what was technically called morning, I rested my chin on my hands, watching Sherlock walk silently about the living room. He hadn't spoken since our exchange in his room, and frankly, I assumed he'd forgotten I was there. He held his violin in one hand and the bow in the other, but played nothing. He simply paced. After what felt like his hundredth turn around the room, he stopped and looked at me. His expression told me that, yes, he had forgotten I was there.

"You're still up?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Why? John's been passed out for hours. Go to bed," he instructed.

I pushed away his comment. "I'm fine," I said, leaning over the arm of the couch to watch him. "Play me something, Sherlock," I begged, my voice betraying my exhaustion. Having definitely heard it, Sherlock watched me for a moment more before raising his violin and drawing his bow across it. A somber, sad melody flowed from the strings, perfectly matching the soft fall of snow outside. I closed my eyes, letting the notes fall on my ears in turn, lulling me to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke stiff and uncomfortable, but underneath a plush blanket. I stretched, cracking my joints as best I could, and heard something fall to the floor as I swept my arm across the armrest. The sound startled me, and I looked to see what had fallen.

A small box, wrapped in simple, white paper, lay on the floor beside me. I picked it up, examining the tag attached to it.

_To Mary_

It said nothing else anywhere on the package, but process of elimination clued me in as to the giver. I ripped off the paper, dying of curiosity. Upon opening the box, I found a small slip of paper resting on top of a bracelet. I unfolded the paper, finding just three words.

_Honorary consulting detective_

I reread the paper at least three times before pocketing it and lifting the bracelet from the box.

"You look like you just won the lottery," John said from the kitchen. I jumped, almost dropping the piece of jewelry. "Who's it from, then? Admirer?"

I grinned. "Better," I said, running my fingers over the silver chain. The metal had an antique finish, making the small hand lens that the chain was connected to seem almost delicate. I looked up at the sound of drawers closing in Sherlock's room. While John had his back turned, I snuck through Sherlock's door, surprising him. Before he could throw me out, I glomped him, throwing all of my weight into him and making him stumble. Given that he had a full foot on me in height, my head barely reached his chest. I felt him go rigid, unsure of how to respond. A hand began to pat me on the head, while another rested against my back. Sherlock stayed silent, but hugged me back. I pulled away, hopping up to pull him down by his collar. In one swift movement, I pecked him on the cheek, smoothed his collar, and pulled his door open, moving into the doorway.

"Thank you," I said simply, hurrying back into the living room.


	14. Chapter 14

Mary

It had been six days since Christmas, and as December 31st began, Sherlock had yet to improve. The morning was dreary and grey, and Sherlock played the violin in a dark maroon robe. I had thrown on a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, seeing as I'd be at the computer all day, and John was slipping into a jacket that was about the color of a camel. The morning tea was on the coffee table in front of me, a small blessing I'd recently learned came from Mrs. Hudson. As I waited for John's computer to warm up, I poured myself a cup, watching Sherlock pause every few moments to scribble on some blank sheet music.

"John? Do you want some tea?" I offered as John rushed back and forth through the flat.

He stopped for a second, looking down at the tea set. "Sorry. Can't. I'm going to be late for work."

"Again?" Mrs. Hudson said as she entered from downstairs, "Really John, you should wake up earlier. Oh, that piece is lovely, Sherlock. I haven't heard it before."

"It's new," Sherlock replied, scribbling away at the paper on the stand in front of him.

John studied him, choosing his words carefully. "And, um, what was the thought process?" he asked finally. Sherlock returned to playing without saying a word. Without warning, he stopped and pointed at me with his bow.

"Mary. What's the counter on?"

I blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"The counter. On the blog."

I scrolled up to where the counter was. "Still 1895. Hasn't been fixed yet."

"Still broken," he said thoughtfully, putting down his violin and pulling out Irene's phone, "or tampered with?" He typed a sequence into the phone, but the expression on his face betrayed disappointment. "Still broken," he muttered, putting the phone away and returning to his playing. John and I shared an uneasy look before he motioned for Mrs. Hudson and I to join him in the hall.

"Has he ever been like this?" he asked Mrs. Hudson in a hushed voice. "Has he ever had a, um, girlfriend, boyfriend, relationship of any kind?"

"I don't know," she answered.

"I don't know either. But how could we not know?"

I shrugged. "He's Sherlock. How could anyone know?"

John grimaced. "Yeah, you're right. Listen, will you be alright to watch him today?"

"Of course," I replied, "I kind of assumed that's a temporary second part of my job."

"Yeah, well, hopefully it won't be for too long," John answered. "I'm off. Call me if you need anything, alright? Both of you."

"Don't worry about us," Mrs. Hudson said. "Off you get."

Once he'd left, Mrs. Hudson returned to her floor and I got to work replying to emails. I'd been sitting for less than five minutes when Sherlock hurried to his room and came back out fully dressed. He tossed the robe he'd been wearing onto his chair and adjusted his scarf. I swelled with pride when I noticed it was the one I'd given him, but regained my sense as I realized what he was doing.

"Where are you going?" I asked, pulling the laptop shut.

"Out," he said, heading for the door.

Taken aback by the abruptness of it, I moved to block the doorway. "Whoa whoa whoa. Let me get this straight."

"Do hurry up about it."

"You spend almost an entire week writing sad music, not eating, not sleeping, not even _talking_, and suddenly you have places to be?"

"I've got a case to investigate," he replied, barely looking at me.

"What?! No. No you don't. I'd know, remember? Sherlock, just freaking tell me where you're going. It takes far less of a genius than you to know I'm worried about you."

A look of irritation crossed his face. "I never asked you to worry. There's no reason to. Now move," he said in a harsh tone. The sharpness of his words surprised me, and I stepped out of the way, letting him pass. After he left, I wasn't quite sure whether or not to call John. In the end, I decided it was best to give him a heads up. I called his cell, but got no answer, so I left a message.

"Hey John. It's Mary. Listen, I don't think it's anything to be too worried about, but Sherlock just left. I say it's nothing to worry about, but I just...I don't know. I have a bad feeling. I just didn't want to push him too hard so I let him leave." The annoyance in his eyes replayed in my mind and I felt my throat tighten. I cleared it, sniffling. "I'm probably worrying over nothing. Just call me back, okay?"

As I hung up, I took a sip of my tea. I made a face, putting it back down and pushing it away. It had gone cold while I'd been arguing with Sherlock. I sighed, reopening the laptop and hoping for at least one case that would take his mind off of everything.

"Cheating husband, missing husband, missing wife, God! Don't people know this isn't Cheaters?!" I complained, mashing the delete button harder with every email. "You have got to be kidding me." Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

"I've got it, Mary!" called Mrs. Hudson.

"Okay!" I called back. I waited, listening as she pulled the door open. A crash sounded from downstairs, dropping a clump of fear into my stomach.

"Mrs. Hudson? Are you alright?!" I asked frantically, hurrying to the stairway. Downstairs, two men each had a hold on one of Mrs. Hudson's arms and one had a gun pointed at her head. Mrs. Hudson tore her gaze from the man in front of her and looked up at me.

"Run, Mary!" she screamed, her voice cracking with fright. The man with the gun whipped his head up to face me and I recognized him as the American from Irene's flat.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I yelled, barreling down the stairs at top speed, keeping my head low. The American fired, missing my skull but getting close enough that I felt the bullet whizz through my hair. I drove my shoulders into his gut, sending him straight into the ground. Before I could land a punch, I heard Mrs. Hudson cry out and whirled to face her. One of the other men had his gun nuzzled beneath her jawline. Her lower lip trembled with fear.

"Get off him, now. Or I shoot," the man instructed. I hesitated just long enough for the man below me to sock me in the jaw, sending me to the floor. He locked my arms behind my back and dragged me up the stairs behind Mrs. Hudson, nearly dislocating both my shoulders. Both of us screamed at the top of our lungs for help, but received no answer.

In the living room, the Americans sat both Mrs. Hudson and I in chairs from the dining room. I peeked at Mrs. Hudson, who was visibly shaking. I grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. She glanced at me with her head still down.

"Don't worry. Sherlock will come back," I whispered, giving her my most convincing smile.

"Oh, we're counting on it," the American interrupted, walking towards me. "But first," he continued, raising my face with a finger under my chin to meet his gaze, "I have a couple of questions for you two. Firstly, where is the phone?" He sat on the coffee table, watching me and waiting for a response.

_Where is the phone?_ I asked myself, starting to panic. I ran through the morning in my mind, tracing the whereabouts of the phone. My heart stopped as I realized where it was. I fought with everything I had not to glance at the robe, still draped over Sherlock's chair less than five feet from us.

"I...I don't know," I said, shrugging for emphasis.

The American raised his eyebrows. After a moment of silence, he rose to his feet and approached me. "Miss Fisher, do you take me for an idiot?" he asked finally.

I considered my options, and an idea began to form in my mind. "...What, is that some kind of trick question? Dude, I live with Sherlock Holmes. _I'm _an idiot by comparison. Are you kidding me?"

The American cut me off by landing a right cross on my bruised jaw. I cried out in pain. Mrs. Hudson cried out in shock and began to sob. The American rolled his eyes.

"Go get her a tissue, Max," he told the man behind her. Max did as he was told, and the American turned away for a moment, speaking in hushed tones with the man behind me. While everyone was distracted, Mrs. Hudson filched the camera phone from the robe, stuffing it inside her cardigan. She winked at me encouragingly. I smiled back.

"Alright, Miss Fisher. If you won't help, I'll ask Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, where is the camera phone?"

"Why do you want it so bad? What could she possibly have that concerns America?" I inquired watching him turn his gun over in his hands.

"That's none of your concern. Now, again. Where is the camera phone, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I don't know," she whimpered.

"Why would she know? She doesn't even work on the cases! Leave her alone!" I protested. The American silenced me with a punch to my gut. I doubled over, putting my head between my knees and trying to pull in a breath. Before I could stop him, he threw his knuckles into Mrs. Hudson's cheekbone, cutting her skin with a silver ring he wore.

I hitched in enough air to scream at him. "_Stop it!" _I cried, rising from my seat only to be thrown back into it by Max and his friend. One of the stairs creaked, attracting my attention. I twisted my neck to look around the wall at the stairwell. Sherlock entered through the kitchen, taking in the scene without a word. Relief tried to break through the wall of adrenaline I'd erected in my mind.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sobbed. My breath hitched, and I tried to swallow past the lump forming in my throat.

Sherlock looked down at her. "Stop sniveling, Mrs. Hudson. It'll do nothing to impede the path of a bullet." My head began to hurt. I raised my eyes up just enough to see him, and I found not a hint of sympathy on his face. I bit my lip to keep from crying.

"I believe you have something we want, Mr. Holmes," the American said, coming to stand between Mrs. Hudson and I. Sherlock crouched in front of us, looking for wounds. Holding one of Mrs. Hudson's hands, he lifted my face with a soft hand under my chin, and I locked eyes with him. His eyes had softened, and my shoulders relaxed just a bit. He grasped my chin lightly, turning my face from side to side and noting the bruises still forming. I looked at the ceiling, blinking back tears, and hung my head, barely looking at him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, shifting my eyes to Mrs. Hudson and back. "I tried."

Sherlock creased his brow in confusion and turned his attention to Mrs. Hudson. He moved her collar aside, inspecting her skin for bruises. He turned her face to the side and something flashed across his eyes as his gaze fell on the cut on her cheekbone. Raising his gaze to meet the American's, he squeezed Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"I believe I do," he answered finally, "But first, get rid of your boys. I dislike being outnumbered. Makes for too much stupidity."

"Alright. Go get in the car, boys."

Sherlock shook his head. "Get in the car and drive _away_. Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It won't work." I let my eyebrows rise and fall._ Humility can go so far, dear Sherlock, _I thought sarcastically.

The American sighed from behind me. "Alright."

"Next I want you to stop pointing that gun at me."

"What, so you can point one at me?"

"I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?"

Sherlock smirked. "I insist." The American obliged, patting Sherlock down. In one smooth movement, Sherlock grabbed a small can from a nearby table, sprayed the American in the face with it, and headbutted him. The American fell back onto the bed, unconscious.

"Moron," Sherlock muttered, crossing the room to where I sat, taking deep, calming breaths and tending to Mrs. Hudson.

"Are you alright?" he asked her, grabbing her hand.

She nodded. "I'm fine. Really, I am."

"I'm fine, too. If anyone's wondering," I interjected.

Sherlock turned to me. "You're twenty two. Of course you're fine," he insisted, squinting in confusion. "Why didn't you fight back?"

I scoffed. "Where do you think this," I pointed at my cheek, which was quickly turning purple, "came from? Fists don't win in a gunfight, Sherlock. What should we do with what's his face?" Sherlock looked at me thoughtfully.

John

Thoroughly shaken, I wobbled back to the flat, wondering how on earth I'd have this conversation with Sherlock. _Irene's alive and he knows. How is he handling it?_ I wondered. _Where did he go? God, I hope he came home. Wait a second..._

The door to 221B had a note attached to the knocker. I recoiled as I read it. _Busy? Sherlock's never busy._ I gave the door a light push, and found it open. Rushing up the stairs, I stopped in the doorway, trying to make sense of the scene in front of me. The lead American from Irene's flat sat tied to our client chair, a strip of duck tape over his mouth. Mary circled him like a vulture, stopping only when I cleared my throat.

"Uh. What...What's going on?" I asked, looking to both Mary and Sherlock for an answer. Mary glanced at Sherlock, who rose from the couch, a gun in his hand.

"Mary and Mrs. Hudson were attacked. I'm simply restoring order to the world," he explained.

"Oh my God. Are you alright?" I asked, rushing to join Mrs. Hudson on the couch.

"I'm fine! I'm fine," she insisted.

I glanced at Mary, who had taken a seat in Sherlock's chair, trying unsuccessfully to hide a surly expression. I crossed the room, crouching beside the chair and touching her hand lightly. "Are you alright?" I asked sincerely.

A half-smile crossed her face, warming her expression. "Yeah. I'm fine. Although I'm not so sure about this guy." I stood back up, looking from the American to Sherlock, who now had the gun pointed at his hostage and a phone to his ear. I didn't really want to get between Sherlock and this man that was probably going to suffer.

"Sherlock, I'm going to take Mrs. Hudson and Mary downstairs and make sure they're alright."

Mary shook her head. "Take Mrs. Hudson. I have stuff to do." The fire in her eyes startled me. I shrugged, taking Mrs. Hudson by the arm. As I passed Sherlock, I studied him carefully.

"Are _you_ alright?" I asked. He simply nodded, and gestured towards the stairwell with the gun. I led Mrs. Hudson down to her basement, only catching a snippet of conversation as I went.

"Just don't cause too much internal bleeding, alright?" Sherlock muttered. He raised his voice slightly as he got a hold of the police. "Lestrade! Listen, there's been a break in at Baker Street..." his voice trailed off as I took Mrs Hudson into her sitting room.

Minutes later, we heard a window break and a crash, followed by a male groan. Mrs. Hudson and I shared a glance.

"That was right on my bins," Mrs. Hudson said.

As the sun set, Sherlock and Mary rejoined us in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, both wearing a similar expression of satisfaction.

"How's Mrs. Hudson?" Mary asked cheerily.

"She'll have to stay the night in our flat. She's in shock, so she should go and stay somewhere else. With family, maybe?" I grunted in frustration. "All this over a bloody stupid phone. I can't believe it. Where is it, anyway?" Mary grinned and looked at Mrs. Hudson, whose teary act immediately fell to reveal a snarky grin. She pulled the phone out of her cardigan and handed it to Mary, who handed it to Sherlock.

"You left it in your robe, genius," Mary teased.

"I snuck it out while they thought I was having a cry," said Mrs. Hudson.

Mary giggled. "Man, you should have seen it," she said to me before turning to Sherlock and continuing, "She's almost a better actor than you!"

Sherlock grinned, stepping between Mary and Mrs. Hudson. "Shame on you, Doctor Watson. Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?" He threw an affectionate arm around her, which she grasped with one hand. "England would fall."

Later that night, Mary and I stood milling around the living room, listening to Sherlock play periodically between long silences.

"So. She's alive. Crazy," Mary expressed, clasping her hands in front of her and leaning on the mantle. She turned to Sherlock, who ignored her, looking out the window. I decided to push the subject a bit.

"How are we feeling about that?" I prodded. Sherlock remained silent, pulling his violin to rest beneath his chin. Without a word, he began to play "Auld Lang Syne". I smiled in defeat, shrugging at Mary. She shrugged in return.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," Mary said with a nod in his direction. "Happy New Year, John," she said to me.

I raised my mug in response. "Happy New Year."


	15. Chapter 15

John

A new year began rather uneventfully, at least when compared to the last year. Having the day off, I'd stayed around the house to do a bit of tidying up, and Sherlock had gone off to x-ray Irene's mobile. Mary had been up since eight rifling through emails, and had just gone into Sherlock's room to catch up on her sleep. She hadn't said much since last night. Any exchanges I'd had with her that morning were short and rather similar to an exchange with Sherlock. I thought back to early that morning.

"Morning," I'd greeted her.

She barely looked up from my laptop before burying herself even deeper into her work. "Morning."

I stood in the opening to the kitchen awkwardly, studying the frown lines between her brows and the tension in her shoulders as she lifted the cup of tea to her lips. It was a delicate situation, to be sure, so I handled it as carefully as I could.

"You like him, don't you?"

I got her just as she was taking a sip, and she breathed in, choking on her tea. "W-what?!" she stuttered, nearly coughing up a lung. I figured I'd hit the nail on the head, and sat beside her.

"Sherlock. You like him, don't you?" I asked again, watching her reaction. Immediately, her ears began to turn a bright red before the color spread into her face. She stared at me, unwilling to break eye contact, but also apparently unsure how to answer.

"W-what are you talking about? Why would I like him? He's a jerk!" she protested.

I smiled. "Yes, but he's our jerk. I may be dense, but I'm nowhere near as dense as Sherlock."

She hesitated for a moment, and then asked in a tiny voice, "Is it obvious?"

"Y-no! No. Look, the only reason I ask is because of this Irene business," I explained, putting an arm around her shoulders. Her face fell, and she looked at me like a child asking their parents for reassurance in their belief in Santa Claus.

"Do you think he likes her?"

I gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Sherlock? Mary, how would I know? The man's a complete mystery. I don't even know if he...you know, feels things like that." She looked at the ground like I'd just kicked a puppy. I cleared my throat. "But look. If he does feel things like that, I don't know if a terrifying woman like that would catch his fancy."

"I dunno. I mean she fakes her death-who does that?! And it tears him up inside, or at least it seems that way. Then all of a sudden she's alive, and he's obsessed with her stupid phone. I'm not in high school anymore. If the feeling isn't reciprocated, fine. But for the love of God, she's totally nuts. I'm terrified to run into her again, let alone have Sherlock see her again. I don't want her to destroy him. You know?" Mary asked.

I took a deep breath. "Oh, more than you know. Don't worry. This is Sherlock we're talking about. He can handle himself, and if he can't, well, you and I will be here, hm?" I gave her shoulders a squeeze for emphasis and received a small curve of the lips in return. At that moment, Sherlock came out of his room, spared us a long glance, and made a sound of annoyance.

"Do get a room if you're going to do that," he'd said before knotting his scarf and hurrying out the door. Mary and I shared an awkward silence before separating.

Speaking of Sherlock, he returned just as I finished putting away the laundry. I heard him come up the stairs, walk around the living room, and then walk into his room before I heard his voice.

"We have a client," he said calmly.

I peered around the doorway to see where he was. "In your room?" I joked, crossing the living room to his doorway. "Oh no, that's just Mary. _Oh._" I fell silent as I took in the scene. Mary was curled up in a bundle of Sherlock's sheets as I'd left her, but an arm was draped over her that belonged to none other than Irene Adler. The pair slept peacefully, leading me to assume that Mary had not noticed her presence. Sherlock and I shared a glance.

"She is going to go ballistic," I said. I cringed as I saw Mary's eyes flutter open and focus on Sherlock and I.

She gave us a lazy smile as she stretched. "Well hello there, ever-smiling faces!" she said, yawning. Sherlock watched her, a mischievous smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Confusion passed Mary's eyes and she glanced down to see Irene's arm over her waist. Still only half awake, she turned over to see what the arm was attached to, and stared at Irene, uncomprehending. Almost as if in response, Irene's eyes opened, and Mary screamed bloody murder, catapulting out of the bed and behind Sherlock and I.

"_It's the crazy naked lady!"_ she screeched, "_WHY IS THERE A CRAZY NAKED LADY IN BED NEXT TO ME?!" _She stopped and looked from Sherlock to me and back again. "Why was there a crazy naked lady in bed next to me and neither of you did anything about it?!"

I held my hands up. "Don't look at me, I just walked in."

She returned her attention to Irene. "What the heck, crazy naked lady?!" she yelled, pulling Sherlock and I closer to shield her.

Irene gave the smile of a practiced seductress. "I'm not naked now, obviously. Well," she looked down at the robe she wore, "technically I'm not. I was exhausted and I didn't want to wake you. I thought it'd be rude." She paused and her lips spread in a smile that would have made anyone blush that was directed at Mary. "You're so cute when you sleep."

An expression of delirious, sleep-deprived confusion and horror formed on Mary's face, and I couldn't help but burst into laughter.


	16. Chapter 16

Mary

"So who's after you?" Sherlock began, arms behind his back as if addressing an every day client.

"People who want to kill me," Irene answered.

"And who's that?" John prodded.

"Killers," she said simply.

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "You know, we might actually get somewhere if you were a bit more specific," I muttered.

She gave me a sly smile. "But where's the fun in that?"

"We're not talking about fun. We're talking about surviving," Sherlock interjected with irritation.

"That's why I came to you, Mr. Holmes. With you, I can get both," she said with a flirtatious raise of her eyebrows.

In the brief pause that followed, I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "So people are trying to kill you. Killers are trying to kill you. So you fake your death to get away from them?"

She shrugged. "It worked for a bit."

"Until you told John you were alive and therefore Mary and myself," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, I knew you'd keep my secret."

He furrowed his brow. "You couldn't. Especially not with my woman-child here," he protested, gesturing in my direction. It took me a moment to realize that I'd been insulted, and I made a whiny noise.

Irene gave me an amused smirk. "But you did, didn't you?" I shrugged, crossing my arms and looking away as she continued. "Where's my camera phone?"

John scoffed. "Not here. We're not stupid, you know."

"If they think you've got it, they'll be watching you," Irene said, making eye contact with Sherlock.

His expression remained neutral. "If they were watching, they'd know I took out a safety deposit box at a nearby bank."

"I need it," she insisted.

"Well we can't just go and get it, can we?" John said.

I looked out the window thoughtfully. "Unless..." I mumbled, feeling all eyes in the room turn to me. I turned to look at Sherlock, who regarded me with interest. "Um. U-unless...Molly Hooper could go grab it. She could pass it on to one of your homeless network people and they could bring it...here?" My voice lacked confidence.

Sherlock gave me a surprised smile. "Excellent plan, Mary. Full of intelligent precautions. Speak up! Have a bit of confidence."

Pleasantly surprised, I glanced at John, who smiled encouragingly. "O-okay. Cool! Well then I'll just- AUGH!" I growled in frustration. Sherlock had pulled the phone out of his pocket. "I hate you," I said simply, crossing my arms.

"No you don't," he said with a knowing smile that almost made me blush. "What do you keep on here?" he asked Irene.

Her expression became neutral. "Pictures, emails, conversations. Anything I find...interesting."

"Blackmail," John said.

"Information," Irene corrected. "I like to know that people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"You have something that's more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes," she replied, "But I don't know what it means. Maybe you could decipher it?"

"Passcode?" Sherlock inquired. Irene simply held her hand out for the phone. After a short stare down, Sherlock handed her the phone. She typed in a code, and her brows creased in confusion when it was rejected.

"It's not working," she muttered, looking up at Sherlock.

"You don't really think I'd give you the phone that easily, do you? 1058, that's an interesting code," he said, whipping out what appeared to be the actual phone and typing the code in. His face fell, and I couldn't help but giggle.

"I told you that phone is my life. I know it when I have it," Irene taunted.

After a short, frustrated silence, Sherlock raised his gaze to meet hers. "You're not bad."

Irene smirked. "You're not bad yourself." The pair shared such a long gaze that John and I began to squirm uncomfortably. Finally, John broke the silence.

"Hamish!" All three of us looked at him in confusion. "John Hamish Watson. In case you were looking for baby names."

"Ooh. Elaine for a girl!" I interjected.

Irene looked at me thoughtfully. "Elaine. I quite like that. What do you think, Sherlock?" I made a pained sound as she cocked her head at Sherlock. The sound attracted his attention.

"Show me the information," he said, taking a seat by the window. Then, looking at me, he asked, "Mary, are you alright?"

"Fine! Just fine," I insisted as Irene handed Sherlock the phone.

"An unnamed security personnel showed me this email, saying it would save the world. I took a picture of it so I could figure out what it meant," she explained.

"And they didn't mind?"

"He was a bit tied up at the time." My face began to turn red as Irene leaned down to where her face was level with Sherlock's. "Now Mr. Holmes, tell me what it means. Come on," she said, leaning closer, "Impress a girl."

In the next five seconds, Irene kissed his cheek and he spouted a stream of words that led to the conclusion that the email represented a departing flight on a jumbo jet. He rose to his feet as he spoke quicker than I'd ever heard, and as he fell silent, Irene gazed up at him, clearly fascinated. Sherlock sighed.

"Don't tell me that was amazing or remarkable. Mary and John have expressed that in every available variant in the English language." I made a small, embarrassed sound.

"I would have you begging for mercy on this table twice," Irene said with an unmistakeable air of authority. My eyes widened as I looked at John, who seemed spellbound by the exchange.

Sherlock stared at her quietly for a moment. "Check the flight roster, John."

I nearly fell out of John's chair, and John nearly spilled his tea. Thankfully, the tension in the room had been diffused, and John quickly broke the ensuing silence.

"You're right. Flight 007, departing tonight," he said with an expression of disbelief.

Later that night, I arrived home after a short trip to the store. John had left for the pub with his friend Mike, leaving Irene and Sherlock alone at the flat. I closed the door quietly and took my time going up the stairs, none too keen on meeting The Woman again. When I reached the top, I stopped, listening to Irene and Sherlock talking. A quick peek around the corner revealed that the fireplace was lit, and Irene still wore the robe she'd nicked from Sherlock's room. It took little more than a glance at their expressions to catch me up on the conversation. Nevertheless, I slunk through the kitchen while their attention was diverted, stopping behind the corner to listen. Irene sat on the couch and Sherlock sat in his chair, as he always did. There was a pause in the conversation, and Irene crouched on the floor beside him, grasping the arm of the couch and looking up at him like an adoring child. My ears burned.

"Let's have dinner," she said, her voice a soft sigh.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock answered.

"Good. Neither am I." As she said this, Sherlock took her hand that had been clutching the couch and turned her arm so that her palm faced up.

As he spoke, he moved his hand along her hand until he was lightly grasping her wrist. "Why would we go to dinner if neither of us is hungry?" I cowered behind the small beam that hid me, afraid to move, but afraid to see what would happen next.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes. It's not the end of the world," Irene insisted. Panicking, I fell to my knees and crawled into John's room, opening the door just wide enough to sneak inside without being seen. Closing the door behind me, I crawled up onto the bed, sitting with my back to the door and my legs crossed, trying to fold into myself and disappear. I tried to block out thoughts of what might be happening outside as my chest heaved with breaths that I was struggling to keep from becoming sobs. Dealing with jealousy had never been my strong suit, but this? The idea of Sherlock Holmes being putty in the hands of a madwoman made me physically ill. I pulled my knees to my chest, gripping them tightly. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. I looked to the door, trying to hear what was happening. From what I could discern, the government was kidnapping Sherlock again. _Well,_ I thought,_ at least he's wearing clothes this time._

When the front door had closed and the flat had once again returned to silence, I sat, watching the door and wondering what to do. Irene must have still been in the living room. After all, the government technically couldn't touch her. However, the awkwardness that was likely to ensue was enough to keep me in the room.

"You can come out now," Irene called from the living room. "I know you're in there."

I deflated as mortification flooded me. Not wanting to put off the inevitable, I crossed the room to the door and went into the living room, taking a seat in John's chair across from Irene, who watched me like a snake watches a mouse. At the moment, I felt sort of like a mouse.

"W-where's Sherlock?" I asked uneasily, trying to avoid any awkward topics.

"The airport, most likely. He's got a," she smiled, "plane to catch."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Nothing, except I expect he'll be hearing it from both his brother _and _the American government when he gets there."

"Why?" I grew suspicious as I watched her self-satisfied expression. "What did you do?"

"What did _I _do? No, my dear girl. What you should be asking is what did Sherlock do? He is the one you're so worried over, after all." She narrowed her eyes, grinning like I'd told a joke. "Aha. I knew it. You truly do care for him, don't you?"

I recoiled, caught off guard. "W-what?"

"You've got a magnificent flame going for Mr. Holmes. I can see it quite clearly now. After all, why else would you eavesdrop and then scuttle away into Doctor Watson's room without a word?"

Embarrassed tears threatened, but I forced them back. "Why does it matter what I feel? You and Sherlock seem to have a pretty profound thing going."

She appeared confused for a moment, and then laughed. "Oh, darling. You should know me better than that. You're much more my taste than poor Sherlock. And that's a bit of a stretch, even. I don't usually go for a girl I could break."

My eyebrows creased in confusion. "But Sherlock-"

"Sherlock has done and thought exactly what I needed him to," she said with a smirk.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough. For now, however, I must be going," she said, rising to her feet.

I stood as well, trying to block her path. "Wait, no. You're not leaving!" I insisted, trying to appear larger. Irene, who stood almost half a foot above me, regarded me with a mix of interest and condescending pride. I didn't like it.

"You know, I like you. I really do. You're quite brave when it comes down to it. In another life, I'd find you quite the valuable ally with your kickboxing background and unwavering loyalty. However," she said, pulling something from her robe too quickly for me to see, "for now, I must leave you." She jabbed me in the arm then, hard, and I hit the floor within seconds. My vision swam as she watched me.

"I wish you the best. I really do. Oh! Before I forget. I have something for you," she added. She rushed into Sherlock's room and out again, leaving a small box and note on the table. " And now, I have a plane to catch. Until next time, Miss Fisher." As she hurried down the stairs, the room went dark.

A few months later, Sherlock and I sat in the living room, watching fat raindrops splatter on the windows. Sherlock was multitasking, juggling his violin, John's computer, and his phone alternatively. I held a warm mug of hot chocolate in my hands, and the morning's news sat in front of me. The headlines were vague and dull, completely ignoring the anti-terrorist cover up plot that Sherlock had accidentally ruined months earlier, and the woman that had lost every bit of her power as a result of feeling something for Sherlock, whether it was platonic or not. _But hey, _I thought, _newspapers miss stuff here and there._ When explaining the case later, Sherlock had said that sentiment was "a chemical defect found on the losing side." The sentence had startled me, and I'd begun to mask my emotions more regularly around him. However, I had the feeling that Sherlock might have been masking things as much as I was, so I tried to breach the topic.

"Crazy," I said, taking a sip of my drink.

Sherlock looked over the top of John's computer at me briefly before returning his attention to the screen. "What is?"

"I dunno. The entire British government nearly falls at the hands of one woman and not a single other person knows about it except us."

"Yes, I suppose that's...rather odd."

He left it at that, so I prodded some more. "Have you...heard anything from her?" I asked gently.

Sherlock looked at me suspiciously. "Why? I thought you hated her."

I scoffed. "I never hated her. I don't hate anyone. It's too harsh a feeling for me."

"Disliked greatly, then."

"Well, I did. For awhile. But..." I ran my fingers across a golden, sparrow shaped pendant hanging from the necklace around my neck, "I dunno. She's Irene Adler. She gave you a run for your money and brought a nation to its knees. As a fellow woman, I can respect that." He watched me as I turned the pendant over and over between my fingers. Eventually I sighed. "Alright, and she was kind of super nice to me after you left."

"Before or after she drugged you?"

"Um. I'm gonna say during and around that time."

"...Right."

"Anyway, have you heard anything?"

He muttered something about her being captured, and I rose to my feet, crossing the room until I sat directly across from him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?!" I inquired, trying to make eye contact with him over the laptop.

"She was captured by the Taliban, last I heard. Probably going to behead her within a week."

I stared at him, trying to make him uncomfortable enough to look at me. When it didn't work, I shut the laptop, making him shout in frustration.

"What was that for?!" he demanded.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You're going to save her, right?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why on Earth would I save her? She brought it on herself," he replied. The harshness of his tone surprised me, and I leaned back in the chair, unsure what to say. He watched my reaction, and after a moment, he turned to the window, a sly smile forming on his lips as he produced a plane ticket from his pocket. I scoffed, reaching over the table to slug him in the arm.

"You jerk! You almost made me want to punch you!"

"Ah, but isn't that my daily goal? Tell John I went to, oh I don't know. Visit my parents or something," he said, going to his room and emerging with the collar of his trademark coat turned up around his neck.

"He's never going to believe that!" I protested.

"Then come up with something he will believe. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Be careful!"

Within moments, he was out the door and calling for a taxi on the street below. I grinned, watching the taxi drive away. As it turned out of view, I went into John's room and dug in his dresser, where I'd stashed the small slip of paper that had come with my necklace.

_Birds are spectacular creatures, don't you think? So small, so fragile, but given the voices of angels and the ability to soar over the land so high that the billions of people that roam the earth appear as nothing more than insignificant ants. Although you have no wings, dear Mary, I believe you have the ability to fly. I've heard you sing as you walk down the street. Your voice is spectacular, and your love for the people you now call family truly does remind me of a mother bird. I'm glad to have met you, but I expect you to be ruling these boys as well as the world the next time we meet. Understood?_

_The Woman_

Returning the note to its hiding place, I sat on John's bed, quietly reading a book and awaiting his return.

Months after the Irene Adler incident drew to a close, John and I had gone out for a bit, only to find Mycroft waiting in front of Speedy's Cafe for us when we got back. He shielded the end of a cigarette from the damp wind and struggled to light it.

"You don't smoke," John said, getting Mycroft's attention.

Mycroft scoffed. "I also don't frequent cafes. Come inside, please," he said, gesturing towards the door. We followed him in, sitting across from him in a booth towards the back. As soon as we'd gotten seated, Mycroft set a bag on the table that contained a file and a phone.

"The...file on Irene Adler?" John muttered, looking the bag over.

"Closed forever," Mycroft replied, lacing his fingers on top of it. "I am about to inform my brother- or, if you prefer, one of you will-that Irene has gotten herself into a Witness Protection Program in America. She will survive and thrive, but he will never see her again."

"Why would he care?" John asked. "He positively despised her at the end. Won't even call her by name. Just 'The Woman'."

"Is that loathing? Or a sort of salute? One of a kind. The only woman who matters," Mycroft suggested. I squirmed, resisting the urge to kick Mycroft under the table and blame it on John. I could feel John looking at me before he replied.

"He's not like that," John disagreed. "He doesn't feel things that way...I don't think."

Mycroft sighed. "My brother has the brain of a scientist or philosopher, but he elects to be a detective. What then, might we deduce about his heart?"

The comment seemed to confuse John, so he simply answered, "I dunno."

"Neither do I, but initially he wanted to be a pirate," said Mycroft. A high-pitched squeal escaped me before I could stop it, and I shrank against the wall, clapping my hands over my mouth. John and Mycroft both turned to look at me.

"I-I'm sorry. Was that you?!" John asked incredulously.

I laughed sheepishly. "Sorry. Just. Pirate Sherlock. Aah! Adorable. Go on."

John cleared his throat, struggling not to laugh. "Anyway, he'll be okay with this witness protection thing and not seeing her again. He'll be fine."

"I agree," Mycroft said. "That's why I decided to tell him that."

John and I shared a look of confusion. "As opposed to...what?" I asked cautiously, keeping my voice as neutral as possible

"She's dead. She was captured by the Taliban and beheaded two months ago." As Mycroft said this, I felt my inability to lie bubbling up inside me. I shifted positions, crossing my arms on the table and resisting the urge to ask _is that so?_ John narrowed his eyes at me and returned his attention to Mycroft

"Are you quite sure it was her? She's done this before, you know," John asked with a hint of irritation.

"Definitely her. I was much more thorough this time. It'd take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."

_And that is exactly who did it,_ I thought in response.

"I don't think he was on hand this time. Do you?"

My breath caught in my throat as I realized that Mycroft was waiting for an actual response from John and I. A wave of hysterical laughter bubbled up in my throat, and I choked it back down, shaking my head and forcing a serious expression. Both men looked at me suspiciously before Mycroft posed the question.

"So. What do we tell Sherlock?"

Back up at the flat, Sherlock greeted us before we'd even gotten out of the stairwell.

"Clearly, you've got news. If it's about the triple murder, it was the gardener. No one noticed the earring," he said quickly without looking up from his microscope.

I hesitated, so John decided to take the conversation. "No...it's about Irene Adler." As the conversation began, I casually went to John's room, avoiding Sherlock's gaze for fear of bursting into a fit of giggles. After shutting the door behind me, I listened.

""What? Something happen? Did she come back?" I couldn't help but hear a bit of hope in Sherlock's voice, whether it was feigned or real.

"No, I just met with Mycroft."

"She back in London?"

"No, actually. She's in America."

"America?"

"Got herself in a Witness Protection Program. Don't know how she swung it, but you know." John stopped, and there was a beat of silence.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You're never gonna see her again."

"I know that. Why would I want to see her?"

After a pause, John sighed, and I could picture him rolling his eyes as he muttered, "Didn't say you did."

"That her file?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah I was just taking it back to Mycroft. Do you want it?"

Sherlock's response was staccato. "No."

I could hear John struggling to find a suitable response. "Listen I-"

"But I will have the camera phone."

"There's nothing on it. It's been wiped."

Now Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I know. I'll still have it."

"Y-you can't. I have to give it back to Mycroft."

"Please."

I peeked my head out of the door, trying to see if it was really Sherlock that had just said that. He was still focused solely on the microscope in front of him, but he held one hand straight out, palm up, expectantly. John gave a pained sigh, and dropped the phone into his hand.

"Look, I've got a date tonight, so I'll be back in a bit. You owe me, though," John said, heading back down the stairs. I waited until he'd left to emerge from the room.

"So you _can_ keep a secret. I'm pleasantly surprised," Sherlock said, rising from his stool.

I grinned. "Course I can. Although John and Mycroft made it _extremely_ difficult," I added. He gave me the briefest of smiles and, after a moment, tousled my hair slightly.

"Well done," he said. He crossed the living room and stopped by the window.

"Have you heard from Irene since then?" I asked. Without replying, Sherlock scrolled through the phone, presumably the messages. I joined him by the window and looked at the short text.

_Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._

As he smiled at a memory that I knew nothing about, I huffed. "It's totally unfair that I never got to hear the story. You'll have to tell me one day, you know."

He looked at me and then out at the grey streets of London. "One day, maybe," he said finally. "One day."


	17. Chapter 17

Mary

The day started as normally as any day in 221B. John and I sat in the living room, drinking our morning tea, his with milk and no sugar, and mine with milk and two cubes of sugar. He was going through the morning paper and I was scrolling through messages on Sherlock's blog, none of which seemed all that promising. I took a quiet sip of my tea, watching John read. He was always strangely relaxed when he read. His brows still furrowed in the middle, as they always did, but the tension in the way he held himself was gone. Tea in one hand and paper in the other, he was relaxed.

"So...how's, um..." I panicked as I realized mid-sentence that I'd forgotten his girlfriend's name. John looked up at me, waiting patiently for me to finish my sentence. I looked at him helplessly, and he sighed.

"Polly. Her name's...Polly. Am I really that bad?"

I sighed, trying to form the most polite sentence possible. Before I could voice it, the stairwell door opened, and the sight behind it was enough to wipe the still forming sentence from my mind. John and I both stared, speechless, at Sherlock, who stood in the doorway with a harpoon in one hand. Blood was splattered all over him. His hair was matted with the stuff, and you could barely see any of his skin beneath the dark crimson. I couldn't help but think, _God, that white shirt is doomed._

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Well. That was tedious." I looked at John, who's expression held a million questions. He settled on an odd one.

"You went on the tube...like that?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose. "None of the cabs would take me."

I snorted. "Now there's a shocker."

After an hour long bath that I was quite positive took every bit of hot water left in the house, Sherlock emerged from his room in a gorgeous royal blue dressing gown. As he passed by me, harpoon in hand, I resisted the urge to grab the fabric. The harpoon made me nervous. Sherlock didn't speak, but he began to pace. He was a bit more anxious than I was used to, and I watched his many twitches and jitters with interest.

"Are you okay?" I asked gingerly.

He barely spared me a glance before uttering, "No," and continuing to pace. He stopped briefly to look at John. "Nothing?" he asked.

"Um..." John flipped through the pages. "Military coup in Uganda." Sherlock made a noise. "Oh. Another picture of you in the, uh..." Sherlock peered over his shoulder at the photo of him in the deerstalker and groaned, catching my attention.

"Him in the what? Ooh! Let me go get some scissors!" I ran into the kitchen to grab a pair, letting the low conversation become muffled by the wall. I couldn't discern what they were saying until Sherlock yelled.

"Oh _God!"_

Anxious, I peered around the corner, scissors in hand. "Everything okay?"

Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, Sherlock turned to me with fierce, wide eyes. "No!" he repeated. The expression on his face made me a bit quicker about grabbing the paper from John and hurrying to Sherlock's chair. Ignoring me, Sherlock looked at John.

"John, I need some. Get me some." I looked at John, confused. John stared at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised.

"No."

"I need some. Get me some."

"Some what?" I interjected.

John ignored me. "No, cold turkey, we agreed. No matter what."

"Okay, are we talking about drugs or cigarettes here? I'm confused," I whined.

"Anyway, you paid everyone off, remember? No one within a two mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea," Sherlock muttered. "Whose idea was that?"

John cleared his throat and stared at Sherlock before returning his gaze to the paper.

Sherlock was still for a moment. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called before proceeding to tear the room apart. Papers went flying in every direction, and I had to bat away a few as I tried to cut out the article about us. However, Sherlock's frantic searching concerned me too much, and I set the paper down in the chair beside me.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, you're doing really well," John said calmly.

"Y-yeah. Don't give up now," I said meekly, peering at him over the edge of his chair. "Sherlock, come on..." I reached a hand out to touch his shoulder, but he batted it away. Finally, he stopped searching and stood between John and I. I had a hard time meeting his gaze.

"Tell me where they are. Please tell me," he said softly, looking at John, who seemed to bury himself deeper in the paper. "Please."

"Can't help. Sorry," John answered without looking up. Sherlock turned to me, and I began to squirm. His pale green eyes were softer than I'd ever seen them, and if I didn't know any better, I'd have said he was trying to give me puppy eyes.

"Please, Mary," he asked. I felt my lips curl into a frustrated frown, and I looked to John for help. He looked up from the paper.

"No-_no!" _he said firmly. My shoulders fell, and I turned my attention back to the article, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

"The physical appearance of the 'please' makes no difference. Although it is nice. You should do it more often," I said. John giggled at the reference, but Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. I looked up at him. "What? Despicable Me? You didn't see_-hey!" _Sherlock yanked the paper out of my hands and ripped it up before returning his attention to John.

"I'll tell you next week's lottery numbers." My mouth formed a small "o" until John laughed. Sherlock shrugged. "Worth a try." He shot across the room to the fireplace, where apparently he'd moved his special slipper. He turned it upside down, trying to shake out even a single cigarette, but the slipper was empty.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson called as she entered.

"Mrs. Hudson! My secret supply. What have you done with it?" Sherlock demanded without turning around.

"Hmm?"

"Cigarettes. My secret supply. What have you done with them?"

"Oh good! We're not talking about drugs then," I muttered more to myself than anyone else.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "You know you never let me touch your things." She glanced around the room before continuing. "A chance would be a fine thing."

Sherlock sneered at her, making me want to slap him. "I thought you weren't my housekeeper."

"I'm not," she replied, annoyed. Sherlock made a frustrated noise and rose to his feet. As he crossed the room, heading towards his harpoon, he popped me on the back of the head, catching me by surprise.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"It's your stupid fault the slipper's empty. You're the one that told him!"

I scoffed. "If I remember right, you wanted me to impress you. I didn't know losing the cigarettes would send you into a hulked out frenzy."

"Come on, Sherlock. Why don't you have a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson suggested. She eyeballed the weapon in his hand and added, "Put your harpoon down, maybe?"

"I need something stronger than tea. Seven percent stronger." He stopped suddenly, pointing the harpoon at Mrs. Hudson at a range close enough for me to almost jump out of my chair. "You've been to see Mr. Chatterjee again, haven't you?" I covered my face with my hands, fearing the worst.

"That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

"Sherlock," John groaned.

"Thumbnail!" he continued, ignoring John, " Tiny traces of tinfoil. Been at the scratch cards again? We all know where that leads."

"Sherlock! Knock it off!" I yelled.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee, Mrs. Hudson. He's got a wife in Doncaster that no one knows about." My mouth fell open as John slapped the paper down on his lap.

"_Sherlock!"_

"No one except me, of course."

Mrs. Hudson's face fell. "I don't know what you're talking about. I really don't," she insisted, her voice cracking. She hurried down the stairs without another word, and left John and I with Sherlock. I rose to my feet and took off one of my slippers. While Sherlock was focused on the door, I hurled it at the back of his head. It bounced off and he clutched the spot where it'd hit.

"Ow! What was that for?!"

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?! That was such an asshole move!" I scolded, grabbing my slipper and putting it back on.

"John!" he protested.

"She's right. What the bloody hell _was _that about?"

Sherlock sighed, curling up in his chair like an animal in a tree. "You don't understand," he muttered.

John glared at him. "Go after her and apologize."

"Apologize?" Sherlock looked like a child that had just been told to go kiss their aunt.

"Mhm," John reiterated. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I envy you so much."

John looked at me, struggling not to roll his eyes in return. "You envy me?"

"Your mind is so empty, placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, careening out of control. A rocket stuck to the launchpad. _I need a case!" _he yelled.

"_You just solved a case!" _I replied.

"Yeah, by harpooning a dead pig, apparently," John added.

"We still need the low down on that one, by the way," I said. "I don't know if I believe the whole thing."

"Oh, that was this morning!" Sherlock whined, throwing himself back in the chair and drumming his fingers along the arms. "When's the next one?" I crossed the room and grabbed a blanket from the couch. Moving to stand in front of Sherlock, I wrapped the blanket around him, putting his arms in his lap so that I could get it around him tightly and securely.

"What...what are you doing?" he asked, seeming unsure of whether or not to stop me.

"Swaddling you. You're acting like an infant with no motor control, so I'm making sure you don't scratch your own eyes out. Chill."

He struggled to get out of the blanket, looking like a child throwing a fit as he threw the blanket off of himself. "I don't- I don't _need_ to be swaddled! I need a case!" he insisted, throwing the blanket across the room.

John sighed. "Anything on the website?" he asked me.

"Nothing really, except this one thing that I thought was kind of cute, although I don't know-"

"Do babies really do that?" Sherlock interjected.

"Do...do what?" John asked.

"Scratch their own eyes out," Sherlock finished. John waited for me to answer.

"Yes. Our species is advanced, but our offspring are dumb. Speaking of which, this comes from a little girl named Kirstie."

"Oh joy," Sherlock mocked. I stuck my tongue out at him.

"Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?"

"Bluebell?" John asked.

"A rabbit, John!" Sherlock hissed.

"Oh right, well of course. How could I be so stupid?"

"Hush guys! It gets better. Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous-how old is this kid anyway? Like a fairy-" Sherlock scoffed, and I shushed him. "Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone. Let's see...hutch still locked, no sign of forced entry..."

"Brilliant."

I looked up. "What?"

"It's brilliant. Call Lestrade and tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

John and I shared a look. "...You're serious." he said finally.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's this or Cluedo."

John shut his laptop and answered without missing a beat. "Ah, nooo."

The game name got my attention. "Ooh! Cluedo. What's that?"

Sherlock brightened instantly. "Ah. Glad you asked. It's actually quite fun-"

John shook his head. "Oh no. We are _never _playing that again."

"Aw! Why not?" I whined. "I want to play."

John scoffed. "Because Sherlock claimed that the victim did it. And there's no possible way the victim could have done it. That's why."

"That's the only possible solution," Sherlock retorted.

"It's not in the rules!" John insisted, irritation piercing his voice.

"Then the rules are wrong!" Sherlock yelled.

"Oh my _God! Stop it!"_ I screamed, making a move to grab one or both of them. Thankfully, the doorbell rang. Both boys stopped and looked at each other.

"Single ring," John said.

"Maximum pressure and under half a second," Sherlock replied.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Client. I'll get it."

On the other side of the front door stood a rather nervous looking man. He looked to be in his early thirties or so, and his ears stuck far out to either side. His eyes were large and wouldn't hold my gaze. He looked extremely tired and shaken up, so I gave him my warmest smile.

"Hi! Welcome to 221B Baker Street. Can I help you?"

He nodded quickly. "Y-yes. I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

My smile widened. "Great! Come with me." I snagged him by the arm, yanking him through the door and up the stairs. I laughed as I led him up to the flat.

"W-what's so funny?" he asked.

"Well, I'm just so glad you made it. If you'd have come any later, they might have killed each other!" The nervous man shrank away from me in the small stairwell, and I saw him gulp visibly.

"Right...I, uh. I'm glad to be of service, then."


	18. Chapter 18

Mary

Henry proved to be quite different than our normal clients. He brought in a film on a place called Dartmoor, which housed the Baskerville Research Center. As we watched, Henry was uncomfortably quiet, and Sherlock watched him with interest. I kept getting distracted by Sherlock, whose fingers played wildly at the air. I could almost see the whirring wheel of thought spiraling through his mind, throwing ideas left and right as it went. I looked to John for comparison. John watched calmly and quietly, his hands neatly folded in his lap. I returned my gaze to the film, where Henry appeared on screen.

"Hey! You're on tv! That's so cool!" I exclaimed. Henry gave a weak smile.

"What did you see that night?" the interviewer asked. As Henry opened his mouth to answer, the tv went black. I glared at Sherlock, who held the remote.

"What did you see?" he asked, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"What-Sherlock he was just about to answer that!" I protested.

Sherlock shot me an irritated look. "Yes, in a tv interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

I rolled my eyes and Henry nodded quickly. "Sure, sure. Yes, of course," he said quickly. He stopped for a moment and blew his nose loudly. I cringed a bit at the wet, mucusy sound.

"Uh. I've got some Benadryl if you need some. Zyrtec. Hand sanitizer. Whatever," I offered.

Henry waved away the comment. "No. No, I'm alright. Thank you." I could see Sherlock squirming out of the corner of my eye.

"In your own time, but also quite quickly," Sherlock said.

"Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

Without missing a beat, Sherlock replied, "No."

"It's like nowhere else," Henry told us. "It's sort of bleak, but beautiful."

"Not interested. Moving on."

Henry looked at me uneasily and I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Manners are, of course, impossible at this time," I muttered to Sherlock.

"Haven't the time for it. Continue."

"We used to go for walks after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening, we'd go out onto the moor."

"Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?"

I sighed in frustration. Henry looked at me, and Sherlock scoffed.

"Ignore her."

"There's a place. It's a sort of local landmark called Dewar's Hollow," he said. Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock ignores history, pop culture, geography, or anything not having to do with solving crimes. The name means nothing," I explained. Harry's mouth formed a small "o" of understanding, while I felt Sherlock glaring at me.

"I delete unnecessary information is all."

"Gotcha."

"That's an ancient name for the devil," Henry said.

Sherlock held his hands out expectantly. "So?"

"Did you see the devil that night?" John asked, trying to move the case along. Henry nodded, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Yes. It was huge. Coal black fur with red eyes. It got him, tore at him, tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

"Well," said John, "Red eyes...coal black fur, enormous..."

"That's got to be a dog or wolf," I interjected. "There are some pretty big breeds. Maybe a Tibetan Mastiff or something? Those things look like freakin' lions."

"It could be a genetic experiment."

I glanced at Sherlock, who wore a neutral expression in regards to what he'd just said. Harry looked offended.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" Henry asked.

A smile played at Sherlock's lips. "Why? Are you joking?"

Henry's expression became gravely serious."My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville, about the type of monsters they were making. People always laughed at him. At least the tv people took me seriously."

"I assume it did wonders for the tourism," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh my God, you are such a jerk," I muttered.

"But I make good points," he replied.

John cleared his throat. "Yeah...Henry, whatever happened to your father it was 20 years ago. Why come to us now?"

"I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny," Henry huffed.

"No, no. Don't let him get to you," I said soothingly. I glanced at Sherlock and added, "He's always an ass."

"Not always," Sherlock protested. "I just find it all very funny because of what happened last night."

"Why? What happened last night?" John asked.

Henry gazed at Sherlock in disbelief. "How...how did you know?"

"I didn't," Sherlock replied. "I noticed. So did Mary, I think. Mary?" I looked at Sherlock, who watched me patiently, and realized what he was waiting for. I sighed.

"If you don't want to, I'll-" I cut him off with a raised hand.

"Came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a pretty sad breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl that sat across from you liked you! That's cute. Weirdly enough, you were interested, but you seem to have changed your mind. Why? I bet she was cute."

"Focus," Sherlock interjected.

"Sorry. Anyway, you're dying for a cigarette, probably the first one of the day," I said. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Sherlock's eyes widen with excitement.

"Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted," he said.

"Uh..."

"Hush, Mary."

Henry looked from Sherlock to me and back again, seeming unsure of whether to do as Sherlock asked or not. "How on Earth did you know all of that?" John and I answered at the same time, he with a roll of his eyes and me with a shrug.

"Not important."

Sherlock was on a completely different wavelength, of course, and took a deep breath. "Punched out holes for your tickets-"

"Can we talk about this later, Sherlock?" I begged.

"Oh, _please,_ I've been cooped up in here for ages."

"Ages, he says," I scoffed.

"You're showing off!" John scolded.

"Of course I am. I'm a show-off. That's what we do."

I rolled my eyes and rose to my feet. "Honestly. I've never met such a shameless show off. You want something to eat or drink? I'm gonna go make sandwiches," I muttered, stomping off to the kitchen. I stuck my head in the fridge as I pulled out lunch meat and cheese, briefly drowning out Sherlock's voice before it came rushing back like an annoying steam engine.

"Train napkin you used to mop up the spill. The coffee strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk, the traces of ketchup on it, your lips, and your sleeves mean cooked breakfast, nearest thing those trains can manage, probably a sandwich."

There was a pause, and then Henry asked softly, "How'd you know it was disappointing?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then called out to me. "Mary? How'd you know it was disappointing?"

I couldn't stop myself from grinning. "Uh, because I've been on the trains and they don't really offer anything but disappointing." I heard the smallest of chuckles before Sherlock's voice fell to its usual murmur and he continued his deductions. I tuned him out as I made a number of small sandwiches to take into the living room. When the conversation had fallen into a lull, I peered around the corner.

"Is he done?" I asked John.

"Fortunately, yes," John replied.

"Awesome. Sandwich, anyone?" Henry and John both accepted one. Henry's hands shook as he took the sandwich.

"Bloody hell. I heard you were quick," he said to Sherlock. Sherlock readjusted his sitting position.

"It's my job," he said. "Now shut up and smoke."

"Oh my God," I muttered, grabbing a sandwich for myself and taking a seat on the couch behind Henry. As Henry pulled a cigarette from his jacket, I watched Sherlock lean towards him with his eyes wide. His expression disturbed me, and I looked at John. John cleared his throat.

"Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven?" he asked. Henry exhaled a curl of smoke, which Sherlock proceeded to inhale as deeply as he could. Both Henry and I recoiled in surprise. John tried to ignore him.

"That...must have been traumatic," John continued. "Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story to-" Henry exhaled and Sherlock inhaled again. "Account for it?"

"Wow. Just wow. Way to be a freak," I said. "Can you quit it?" Sherlock sat back in his chair, seeming satisfied for the moment.

"That's what Dr. Mortimer says," Henry told John.

John's eyebrows steepled in confusion. "Who?" Henry and Sherlock both answered.

"My therapist."

"His therapist, obviously."

"Louise Mortimer. She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons." Henry's expression made it clear that he didn't share the idea.

"What happened when you went back to Dewar's Hollow last night, Henry? You went on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?"

"It's a strange place, the hollow. Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."

Sherlock interrupted him. "Yes, if I wanted poetry, I'd read John's emails to his girlfriend. It's much funnier. What did you see?" I nearly spit out my sandwich while John sighed. The humor slipped past Henry, whose expression fell once more.

"Footprints. On the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart."

"Man's or a woman's?" John asked.

"Neither," Henry answered. I watched as the interest completely fell from Sherlock's face.

"Footprints? Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but they were-"

"Oh, sorry. Dr. Mortimer wins, childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring," Sherlock said. "Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

"No," Henry protested, "what about the footprints?"

"Probably pawprints. Could be anything, therefore, nothing. Off to Devon with you," Sherlock replied, shooing Henry before crossing the room to the kitchen. "Have a cream tea on me."

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound," Henry called as Sherlock rounded the corner. _Too late,_ I thought, _he's lost interest. _However, Sherlock peered back around the corner.

"Say that again," he instructed.

"Mr. Holmes, it was-"

"No. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago exactly as you said them."

Henry's brow creased in confusion. "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound?"

After a brief pause, Sherlock said, "I'll take the case," catching both John and I off guard.

"What?" John asked.

"Thank you for bringing it to my attention," Sherlock told Henry, ignoring John, "It's very promising."

The whole situation confused me. "Wait, what?" I squeaked.

"Calm down, Mary. Crack your voice like that again and you might damage it," Sherlock told me with a content grin.

"Okay, a second ago, footprints were boring. Now they're promising?! I'm not seeing it."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's nothing to do with the footprints. I'm surprised at you Mary. You weren't listening. Now, I know you're American, but have you heard of Baskerville?"

"Well from the video we watched, I'd say it's pretty Area 51ish," I answered with a shrug.

Sherlock grinned. "Sounds like a good place to start."

Henry looked up at him. "So you'll come down then?"

"No," Sherlock answered. I blinked in confusion. "No, I can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy. But don't worry, I'm putting my best team on it." He stood between John and I and patted us on the shoulders. "I always rely on these two to send me the best data. Neither understands a word of it for themselves."

"Wait! What do you mean you're busy?!" I whined. "You don't have a case! Look, I don't need another one of John's girlfriends hating me because you keep sending us off alone."

"Right!" John agreed. I shot him a look, and he cleared his throat. "Anyway, just a second ago, you were complaining-"

"Bluebell! I've got Bluebell, the case of the vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit, thanks to our wonderful PR representative," Sherlock interjected, giving me a smug grin and tousling my hair.

"That's it. I'm firing myself," I said.

"Nonsense," Sherlock protested, "NATO's in an uproar."

Henry appeared completely lost. "So, you're not coming then?" Sherlock gave him the most ridiculous, over exaggerated frown and shake of the head that I'd ever seen in my life.

"Oh. Okay."

I turned to John, who was watching Sherlock with a sudden understanding. John nodded. "Okay," he said again, crossing the room to where Sherlock's skull sat on the mantle. He picked it up, revealing a small carton of cigarettes underneath. I gasped.

"Trevor! How could you?!" I said, appalled.

"Trevor?" Sherlock asked with a grin. "I always saw him as more of a Billy." John tossed him the cigarettes. Sherlock caught them before tossing them aside. "I don't need these anymore. I'm going to Dartmoor! You go on ahead, Henry. We'll follow later."

Poor Henry looked like a child lost in the woods. "So...you are coming then?"

"20 year old disappearance, a monstrous hound. I wouldn't miss this for the world," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

I looked at him in complete bewilderment. "I...what...I'm so lost. Ugh. Forget it. I'm going to pack."

After Henry had left and as we left the front door of the flat, bags in hand, I jumped at a loud bang against the window of Speedy's next door. Upon closer inspection, I found Mrs. Hudson screaming at an embarrassed looking man that had to be Mr. Chatterjee. I whistled and nudged the boys.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson found the wife in Doncaster," I said.

Sherlock made a noise. "Wait till she finds out about the one in Islamabad." I covered my mouth to muffle a snort of laughter. Once all of our baggage was stuffed in the trunk and I was sandwiched between Sherlock and John in the backseat, Sherlock addressed the driver without looking up from his phone.

"Paddington Station, please."

"Paddington Station? Like the bear?"

Sherlock looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "I beg your pardon?"

"Paddington Bear. He wears a big, floppy hat and a blue coat. It was a kid's show when I was growing up," I explained.

Sherlock stared at me blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said finally, returning his attention to his phone. "However," he continued without looking up, "I remain firm in my decision to refer to you as my woman-child."

I grinned. "Okay, fair enough."


End file.
